Holding On To Let Go
by gaelicspirit
Summary: Following John's coordinates, the boys prepare to battle a witch. When they discover a greater evil is at work, can Sam save Dean's life or will his brother's pain become his own?
1. Part 1: Coordinates

**Disclaimer:** Standard stuff. Sadly, I own nothing.

**Spoilers:** Story is set in Season 1 before "Shadow"... so spoilers for pretty much anything that happened before that.

This is my first attempt at this wonderful world of fan fiction. I have read so many amazing stories by so many talented authors on this site that I was inspired to throw my hat in the ring. This hasn't been beta'd, so all mistakes are my own. I'm posting this in three parts. Reviews are welcome. Needed. Craved...

Part 1

_Dean was running. _

_He couldn't see if it was to or from someone…something. But he was running as if his – or someone else's – life depended on it. The environment around him was blurred, but Dean was clear. _

_Then he turned, his chin over his shoulder, his eyes following, then his upper body rotating to follow the motion. The look in his eyes was terrible. Rage. Pain. Fear. Desperation. Sorrow._

_A crimson trail of blood covered the left side of his face, and as he moved it dripped from his chin to collect on his already blood stained shirt. His arm came up with a sawed-off in it – his left arm, which was odd because Dean is right-handed. His jaw hardened, his eyes emptied, and he fired… _

"Gah…" Sam came awake with a start, unsure if he'd really been asleep. He took a moment to gather his bearings. He was in the Impala. Metallica hummed in the background. The seat beneath him vibrated with the consistent, comforting rumble he'd grown to associate with home. And his brother's hand was splayed on his chest.

"…with me, Princess?"

"Wh-what?"

"You okay, there, Sammy?"

"It's Sam," he answered without thinking.

Dean removed his hand once he could tell Sam was awake. He wrapped his fingers around the steering wheel, the silver ring that never left his hand clinking against the black metal. He slid his eyes sideways to look again at his brother; surreptously checking on Sam's status was as natural to him as breathing. Sam had straightened a bit in his seat and was looking out the front window, a slightly dazed expression on his face. As Dean watched, he squinted his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Your spidey-sense tingling again, little brother?"

Sam shook his head. "Just a headache."

"Mmhmm."

"How far are we from…" Sam had forgotten the name of the town they were heading to.

"Blackroot."

"Yeah. That."

"'bout another 150 miles or so. Why?"

Sam was silent for a moment. Dean waited him out. He had known from the time he was seven that the best way to get Sam to open up was to watch and wait. Sam was always the type of kid that needed to talk about what he was thinking. He either needed to be validated or simply share. A quiet Sam was a broody Sam. Or a worried Sam. And Dean had never let either of those situations last longer than necessary. So, he waited. And he watched.

"Dean, it ever just… I don't know… piss you off that Dad just keeps sending us these coordinates and never actually calls to talk? Never calls _back_ even."

Sam didn't look at him, but Dean knew he was thinking about Nebraska. Dean knew Sam had really thought that _that_ time Dad would call. He hadn't the heart to tell him that he'd called Dad from Lawrence with no reply. Other than another set of coordinates, that is. Did it piss him off? No. It worried him. Every time they followed the string of numbers, Dean hoped their Dad would be there waiting for them. And every time he wasn't, a tiny fissure cracked through the stoic wall of protection he'd spent 22 years building. Dean couldn't shake the feeling – even after all these months on the road with Sam – that he'd done something that day to make Dad leave. And he was the reason Dad wasn't coming back – not some demon.

But how to tell that to Sammy?

"It's our job, Sam."

Sam's head whipped around to face him and Dean bit back a cringe at the reply he knew was coming. "Our _job_?"

"Yes. Our job. We've had this discussion."

"No, Dean. We've never discussed this," Sam pivoted sideways so that his back was to the door and his left arm stretched across the back of the seat. Dean had a fleeting thought that he hoped the door his brother was leaning against was locked.

"We've never discussed how Dad just left – how he knows where we are because he keeps sending us places. How he knew you were hurt – you were _dying_ and never even bothered to call and say 'glad you made it out alive'."

Dean sighed and rolled his eyes. He opened his mouth to retort when Sam's next tirade closed it again.

"You ever wonder why he never called around to check and see if you are really buried in St. Louis, Dean? I mean, there was a funeral. There were newspaper articles – with your name in them – and… nothing."

Dean pressed his lips together. That one had stung. Worse than Lawrence. Worse than Nebraska. But he would die before he let Sam know that. Aside from protecting Sam, Dean's mission in life was to keep peace between his Dad and his brother. Two people so alike they ricochet off of each other. The two most important people in his life were constantly at odds – and they hadn't even _seen_ each other in nearly three years.

"Say something, man!"

Dean lifted his fingers from the wheel in an impatient gesture. "What do you want me to say, Sam? There's nothing I can do right now about how Dad operates. But our _job_ is to hunt evil. And he knows that. So he sends us to where he finds the evil he can't get to. Because he knows we'll do our job."

Sam clenched his jaw and shook his head. "I wish that just one time you would admit that this hurts you."

Dean pulled his eyebrows together. "What?"

"This, Dean. This…indifference."

"Oh, god, kill me now."

"Fine. Fine, Dean. Have it your way," Sam pouted, rotating forward and looking out the side window.

Dean waited a beat, then looked back over at Sam. "You gonna tell me what you saw?"

Sam nearly sprained his neck this time, looking over at Dean, "Wh-what?"

"You think I don't know when you have a vision, Sam?"

Sam's eyes clouded and he shook his head slowly… "No…it-it wasn't a vision… it was…"

"A nightmare?"

Sam nodded slowly.

"Don't think so, kiddo. You forget who you're talking to? Who talked you out of nightmares since you were a baby?"

Sam lifted his eyes to meet Dean's, and for a moment, Dean caught a glimpse of his three-year-old kid brother staring back at him. Sam blinked once. "I, uh, couldn't see it clearly."

"Any reason for me to turn this baby around and head in a different direction? Anyone on the verge of getting decapitated?"

Sam's minds eye flashed to that look Dean had just before he lifted the sawed-off – lifted it with the wrong hand – and fired. "No, this one was different."

"Different how?"

"This one was about… you."

www

Dean pulled into the parking lot in front of apparently the only diner/bar/motel in Blackroot, Massachusetts. He sat for a moment, staring out of the front window, processing what Sam had told him 150 miles ago. It hadn't really been much of a vision, as visions go. But it bothered Sam. And that bothered him.

"Let's go in and see what we see," Dean sighed.

"I don't like this," Sam said, his lips tight.

Dean lifted an eyebrow. "Well, unless you get a tremor in the Force that tells us to vacate, this is where Dad sent us, so this is where we go."

Sam opened the door, and swung his legs out. The squeak of the Impala's doors covered his grumbled, "Still don't like it." Dean didn't have to hear him to know what he said.

They went in, the sadly familiar smells of cigarette smoke, beer, greasy food, and hard-living people assaulted them instantly. Dean breathed it in like ambrosia, his chin up, shoulders rotating back as he opened himself up to the room. Sam ducked his chin and shoved his hands in his coat pocket. Both, however were on alert.

They were shown to a corner booth. Or rather, the bar tender who could have passed for Sean Connery's double, gestured to the corner booth with his chin as he whipped clean a pint and grumbled without really looking at them, "She'll be by in a bit."

Sam chewed the inside of his lip as he carefully surveyed the locals.

"So, I came up with nothing recent on my search of this place."

Dean's brows met over the bridge of his nose. "Nothing?"

"Nothing recent. This place was as bad as Salem back in the day. But it's been quiet for about the last 75 years or so."

Dean pressed his lips together with a nod. His green eyes slide to the back of the diner, past the bar. There was one pool table currently being accosted by two twenty-something drunks. A sly grin lit across his face.

"Think I'll go make us some money, Sammy. See what you can get out of the waitress when she comes by."

Sam had to grin at the look of anticipation on his brother's features. "You want me to get you something?"

"Sure the usual."

"Right. Evian and green salad it is."

Dean paused mid-way through standing from the booth and tossed Sam a stricken look, "Dude! Are you trying to kill me?"

Sam chuckled. "Okay, burger and fries."

"And beer."

"Beer, right," Sam muttered as Dean walked away. "Can't forget that."

He watched Dean walk past the bar and knew the minute he'd lost him when what he assumed was the 'she' the bartender had been referring to swished out of the swinging doors from what could only be the kitchen in a swirl of words Sam didn't understand. She held a tray laden with filled plates in one hand and two pints of beer in the other. Her hair was a coppery gold, long, and tied at the base of her neck. She was trim, but tall.

As Sam watched, Dean's stride slowed, but the waitress's didn't. She walked right up to him, and Sam saw she was just about eye-level with Dean. She met his eyes and as she passed him, pulled his gaze with her. Dean rotated around, his eyes pinned to hers until she turned her head and broke the gaze. The bar tender called something to her in that strange language and she all but barked back, comfortable it seemed that no one else understood what they were saying.

Sam lifted his eyes from the woman to Dean. He wasn't sure if he should be amused or concerned by the dazed look in his brother's eyes. It was if she'd bewitched him. He didn't move – just stood in the center of the room, his hands loose at his sides, and his eyes on her. Sam stared intently at his brother, trying without success to get his attention. A sharp bark of a laugh from behind him made Dean jump and he quickly shifted his eyes from the waitress to Sam. A flush of embarrassment spread over his face and he turned on his heel and continued back to the pool table.

Sam chuckled as he turned back to the menu. It wasn't often that he saw Dean captivated by a woman. In fact, he could only think of one other time: Cassie. Dean's silent admission to Sam that he had not only loved her but had been _in love_ with her still surprised him. Sam had always thought Dean saw women only as objects. Beautiful objects, but not as people who could give him anything back. He only spent as much time with them as it took to release the tension he was consistently building up inside of him – and he only picked ones that wouldn't make him work too hard to get to the moment where the tension could be released.

It helped that women fell over themselves to get his brother's attention. He'd watched it happen since they were kids. Sam had always been tall for his age and Dean had always been a world-class bullshitter, so Dean had been able to get him into bars with believable fake IDs since they were 18 and 14. For the most part, it had been to hustle pool and play poker for money, but the side bonus for Dean had been the surplus female attention. The thing that had surprised him about Cassie was that Dean never _never_ let the women he encountered get close. He'd let them believe they were his universe for a night, but he never let them see _him_.

That was what had initially drawn Sam to Jess. That she let him be open in a way he knew his brother never had been, and, until recently, he thought never wanted to be. Jess had always accepted him – which made him regret even more not telling her the truth. His gut told him that she would not have taken it as Cassie had. She wouldn't have pushed him away from her as Cassie had to Dean.

"Ack, I'd say penny for your thoughts, but they look like they weigh a ton, and I don't have many pennies to spare."

The words seemed to trip over themselves and flow smoothly at the same time. There was an accent, but he couldn't quite place it. He looked up from his sightless stare at the menu to see the bewitching waitress standing over him, pen and pad at the ready.

"Oh, yeah, uh, sorry."

"Can I get y'anything?"

God, why couldn't he place that accent? Sean Connery's double bellowed something to her from the bar, and Sam looked up at her long-suffering sigh. Her eyes were an unusual shade of yellow-green, and the irises were so large that he had to look again. She growled something low over her shoulder and turned back to Sam.

"Sorry 'bout that. He's been in a bear of a mood for two days but won't share why. Can't help him if he won't tell me, now can I?"

Sam grinned, and watched as her lips quirked in an answering smile. "No, guess not."

"So, you hungry, or just looking to stop moving for awhile?"

Sam pressed his lips together at her interesting phrasing. How many times had he said those same words to Dean?

"Yeah, I'll have the chicken and get the burger and fries for my brother…oh, and uh, two beers."

"Your brother the one currently hustling my no-brain cousins out of their papa's hard-earned money?" She asked, not looking up.

Sam slid his eyes to the side, just past her frame to see Dean grinning, eyes down cast, and shoving a wad of bills into the front pocket of his jeans.

"That'd be him."

She nodded, an unreadable expression on her face. "Chicken, burger, and beers, coming up."

She turned and took a different path back to the kitchen. Sam couldn't tell if it was to avoid Dean or not. Dean sat down in his seat with a satisfied sigh.

"That didn't take long," Sam observed.

Dean lifted a shoulder. "When you're good, you're good. They weren't." He laced his fingers together and leaned forward, his shoulders hunching in close. "You find out anything from the waitress?"

Sam mentally kicked himself. "Not really…"

Dean lifted a brow, but didn't move otherwise, "Sammy, I'm shocked and amazed. You aren't the kind to let a pretty face get in the way of progress."

Sam answered him brow for brow. "No, that's your department."

Dean looked out the window with a sideways grin. "Touché."

"I did find out that the bar tender's been in a bad mood for two days and won't tell her why. And they speak another – Gaelic!"

Dean lifted both eyebrows and looked at Sam. "Another Gaelic? There's more than one?"

"Shut up. I just couldn't place the language they were speaking to each other. It's Gaelic."

"How the hell do you know what Gaelic sounds like, Sam?"

"Jess had a thing for… y'know what, never mind. Just trust me."

Dean sighed and sat back. "Well, it so happens that those two college dudes were worth more than just the contents of their wallets."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Turns out there's been a couple of mysterious disappearances in the last week."

"So?"

"So, the same time one of the family members was snatched, another one went crazy."

"Weird."

Dean pointed a finger at Sam. "Yatzee."

"Any idea where we start?"

"Chicken and burger, two beers, right?" Her voice was so close so suddenly that the boys exchanged a glance. How long had she been there?

"That's us," said Dean, shifting his head and looking up at her through his lashes. She merely lifted a brow and looked back down at him. As Sam watched, a silent conversation seemed to go on between them. One where Dean suggested, she shot him down, Dean backed off, and she ran him out of town with a lynch mob. He watched his brother swallow, pull in his bottom lip, and sit back, for all intents and purposes, defeated.

"So, uh…" Sam started, trying to find a name tag on her shirt.

"Those that matter know it, and those that don't know it don't matter," she said, turning her cool eyes to him. Sam, however, didn't really care much what she thought of him, so he returned her stare while Dean quietly sipped his beer.

"All right, then, I'll just ask you flat out. What do you know about these disappearances?"

"What's it to you?"

Sam tilted his head to the side, "We're working for a paper in Boston, doing stories on strange happenings in small rural towns."

She tilted her head to match his expression. "You're lying. And I don't have time for liars." She let loose a low grumble of Gaelic, and Sam felt himself grow suddenly cold.

She turned and left, then, and Sam blinked a couple of times, then turned back to his food.

Dean cleared his throat, drawing Sam's attention. "You okay, there, Sammy?" He'd notice Sam pale at her last words.

"I-I think she just cursed us," Sam said.

"I thought you said you didn't understand Gaelic? And since when has a little swearing upset your delicate sensibilities?"

"I never said I didn't understand it," Sam retorted. Dean lifted a brow. "I don't, but I never said that. And I didn't mean she cursed _at_ us… I mean… I think she cursed us. Like a spell…"

Dean pulled a face at him. "Whatever, Dude."

"Dean, I'm telling you… I got this really weird feeling…"

Dean sat back, scratching the back of his head. "A gee she's cute feeling, or a grab the rock salt feeling?"

Sam stared at him, "I don't know why I bother telling you anything."

"Because I'm an awesome brother."

Sam shook his head and they finished their food in record time. The Waitress With No Name came back and dropped the check on their table.

"Hey," Dean called after her. .She turned and gave him a dead stare. "You know where we can find a room for a couple of nights?"

"To work on your _story_?"

Dean leveled his eyes on her and even Sam felt the coolness in his voice as he answered her. "Yes."

He was done trying to seduce her – now she was simply a vehicle to get information from. Plus, she'd given Sam a hinky vibe, and that was good enough for him. Not that he'd ever tell Sam he took his word at face value. Had to keep that edge.

"Go through those doors there. Alec will help you." She pointed with one long arm, her slim fingers curling back into her hand as she lowered her arm and then looked back at Dean. A look reflected there that Dean couldn't place, but didn't bother to linger on.

"Thanks," he said, dropping a few of the bills he'd just relieved her cousins of on top of the check, his eyes never leaving hers.

The boys stood in unison and walked away from the table. As they passed the bar Sean Connery's double looked up from the tap he was pulling and watched them. Dean shoved his hands in his pockets and unconsciously slowed his walk so that Sam was just ahead of him, and he was between Sam and Sean Connery's double. Something about that look gave him a bad feeling, and he didn't have to be psychic to trust those feelings.

Just as they reached the doors The Waitress With No Name had indicated, a bark of a voice sounded from behind them.

"Winchester!"

Dean froze, but Sam turned on instinct. Dean saw the mental kick flash across his brother's face, just before the surprise at who had called them registered. Dean cocked his head to the side and slowly turned to face the same direction as Sam. Sean Connery's double was moving from behind the bar and approaching them.

"You're John Winchester's boy or my name ain't Declan Kavanagh."

Dean lifted a brow. At least he knew the man's name. He started to open his mouth and reply, when Declan walked past him and directly up to Sam.

"You look just like him. Dean, right?"

Dean stood silently, watching Sam's face.

"Uh, no…Sam." Sam lifted his chin in Dean's direction. "That's my brother, Dean."

Declan turned and regarded Dean with surprised. "Boy, you must take after your mom, because there ain't a hint of John in you."

Sam winced at that. He knew the man was talking about appearance, but he also knew his choice of words would slice through Dean and leave a bloody wound in their wake. Dean's life was about being the son their Dad demanded he be. He was a better soldier at 16 then most Marine's would be in a lifetime. As Sam watched, Dean's green eyes emptied and for a moment his gut clenched and he half expected Dean to raise a sawed-off with his left hand so close was that expression to the one in his vision.

But all Dean said was, "Yeah, I must."

Declan seemed to realize what he'd said, and cleared his throat. "Well, I had been hoping to see John, but he wouldn't have sent you two if he didn't think you could help."

Dean lifted his chin. "So, you know us. Who the hell are you, Declan Kavanagh?"

www

The Kavanagh's owned and ran Blackroot's only diner and motel. Their house was located just behind the main building with a separate garage filled with four non-operating classic cars and two working tractors. Their family had lived in this area since before the Civil War, and they knew everyone and everything that went on in the small town.

This information Sam and Dean digested in the walk from the motel room where Declan let them drop their duffels to the main house where he insisted they join him for a drink while he told them the reason for calling John. He'd bellowed to Alec the motel manager that he'd better tell the girl to mind the bar because he wouldn't be coming back in that night, and with a wave, pulled the boys in his wake.

Dean, Sam observed, had followed along silently. Sam could tell he was sizing up Declan, unsure how exactly to accept this man who knew their father. He wasn't too sure himself. Something about the whole situation gave him an uneasy feeling.

Declan waved them to two wooden chairs gracing the time-worn kitchen table. The room was small, but comfortable. A spacious living room with various bookshelves and cabinets – each decorated with multiple blown-glass figures and vases – was off to the right and a stairway was tucked between the two rooms. A closed door was behind the table where they sat, and Dean assumed it was to a storage area.

"I gather you heard about the disappearances," Declan began, plunking two whiskey glasses down on the table in front of the boys. Sam began to wave him off, but Declan interrupted. "I can't trust a man I can't drink with. You'll have some."

Dean glanced at Sam and shrugged. Sam rolled his eyes and sat back against his chair, allowing Declan to pour him two fingers of Jameson. Dean downed his shot in a gulp, pulling his lips tight against the burn in his throat. Sam hated whiskey. He always had. He hated the memories it evoked of the hard nights his father had endured after a hunt, and his brother putting him back together again – mentally and physically. But at Dean's challenging look, he downed the shot, then immediately turned the glass over on the table.

His eyes burned and watered, and for a moment, he couldn't breathe, but then the burning subsided and he was back in the kitchen, listening to Declan. Dean had kept his green eyes leveled on him the entire time and Sam knew he was waiting. He nodded once at his brother and watched as Dean turned that intense stare onto Declan. Declan, however, was talking to Sam.

"So, you see, as soon as I heard about the connection I had to call John."

"Sorry, what?" Sam wheezed out. "What connection?"

Dean sighed, "To recap, Sam, Declan knew Dad from the Marines. He ran into him once in New Orleans when Dad was after a witch. Declan, here, figured out all by his lonesome that the people who are getting snatched and the people that are going crazy are related to the same evil sonofabitch and he thinks it's the same kind of witch Dad had been hunting."

"Right. Okay."

Dean slid sly eyes over to Declan, "That about it?"

Declan squirmed a bit under Dean's stare. He seemed to be registering that he went sideways with Dean and that was not a good thing. "Look, I don't know that it's the same kind of witch. I just know that the reason these people are going insane is because they feel pain – intense, unimaginable pain – but it isn't real."

Sam pulled his brows together. "What do you mean it isn't real?"

"There's nothing physically wrong with them. The mayor's wife screamed and screamed that her belly was being ripped open, but…"

"No gaping hole in the belly, huh?" Dean said.

"No. Then…" Here, Declan paused, his face paling.

"What?" Sam said, leaning forward with that soft, encouraging look in his eye that never failed to get people to bare their soul to him.

"Then last night, the mayor was returned. They found him tied to the notice board in the center of town. He was dead, and…"

"His belly had been ripped open," Dean guessed, sitting back.

At Declan's nod, Sam frowned. "What makes you think this is a witch?"

"Well, your Dad mostly. When I talked to him –"

"Wait, what?" Sam interrupted.

"You talked to him?" Dean asked.

"Well, yeah," Declan shrugged, looking surprised at the response from the boys. "How else would I have told him what was going on?"

Dean shrugged, then ran his right hand over his face. "Right. How else." He looked at Sam and could practically feel the anger rolling off of him. He could hear his little brother's thoughts. _He knew and he didn't give us anything. Just sent us numbers and expected us to go like good little soldiers…_ Dean sighed. He was suddenly very tired.

Just then, the front door burst open and bounced against the far wall from the force of the impact. Sam jumped and Dean was on his feet, facing the door, hand reaching for the .45 tucked in the back waistband of his jeans before any of them registered who came through the door.

"I don't know where you get off informing _Alec_ that I am to watch your bar, old man, when I have my own tables to cover and on a Friday no less -- what the hell are _they_ doing here!"

Again the words seem to trip and flow simultaneously to Sam. It reminded him of a shallow brook. Dean, he noticed, hadn't moved. He stayed tense, standing between the door and Sam, as if ready for The Waitress With No Name to explode into a ball of flame.

"Brenna," Declan said, tapping the air with his hands to calm her. "These are John Winchester's boys."

"I don't care whose boys they are!" Brenna stood in the doorway, hands on hips, her face a terrible mask of anger directed, thankfully, at Declan. She blew a wayward curl from her eyes. "Who the hell is John Winchester?" She looked back over at Sam and Dean, her eyes resting on Dean's face for a moment. "Oh, John _Winchester_."

If she hadn't been so mad, Sam would have laughed. All of the fire and emotion that Dean emitted from his eyes and held behind his tightly controlled wall, she let loose with a volley of volume. Even her facial expressions reminded him of Dean. Eyes narrowed, brows together, lips pursed. If Dean were ever to let his guard down, Sam thought the words would flow from him as swiftly as from Brenna.

Dean still hadn't moved, however. Sam wished he could see his brother's face. He was sure the stillness was purposeful, but he almost couldn't tell if Dean were even breathing. Brenna stepped up to him, her eyes widening slightly and looking directly into his.

"Dean, right?"

Dean's stance instantly relaxed, and his hand moved away from the concealed gun. He nodded once. Her eyes shifted slightly and rested on Sam's. "Sam?"

Sam nodded, watching Dean's profile. His brother was once again studying Brenna with a look of cautious curiosity.

She looked back at Dean, and her breath trembled slightly as it escaped her slightly parted lips. "I figured. You are the hunter, he is the scholar. It may as well be tattooed on your foreheads."

Whatever damage Declan's earlier words had done to Dean's ability to trust these two, Brenna's words instantly healed. His stance relaxed into what Sam would have described as 'at ease', and he looked back at Sam as if to say 'guess we're doing this'.

Brenna dropped into the chair next to Dean's and reached for his shot glass. She poured herself a generous shot of Jameson, and slung it back, hissing at the burn. Dean sat back down in his chair, his eyebrows up in obvious admiration.

"So, you two going to help us figure out what the hell is going on around here?" Brenna asked, her eyes shifting between the brothers.

Sam chewed his lip for a moment, waiting for Dean to speak up as he usually did. When Dean remained silent, still watching Brenna, Sam nodded, then turned to address Declan. "So, Dad told you he thought it was a witch."

Brenna blinked once, surprise clear on her face, and she looked up at Declan. "A witch?"

Declan cleared his throat, looking at the table. "All I'm saying is that when I told John about the connection between those taken and those touched, he said it was a spell. He said he'd seen it before, and he was pretty sure it was a witch."

"He happen to mention what kind?" Dean asked, his voice low, his eyes on his hands.

"What kind?"

Dean kept his chin down and lifted his eyes to Declan. "Of witch. There's more than one kind. Means more than one way to kill 'em."

At that, Brenna coughed. Sam and Dean shifted their eyes to her. She shrugged, waving their concern away. "Whiskey," she offered and turned the shot glass upside down on the table.

Declan looked over at Brenna, then back at Dean. "No. He didn't say. Guess he figured you boys would figure it out."

Sam slid his eyes to his brother. "Yeah. Guess so."

"So, the mayor, he the only one to be returned?" Dean asked.

"So far, yes," Declan sighed, a shadow covering his face. "The sheriff's wife was taken two days ago. They admitted Ben to the hospital soon after, but, like I said, nothing wrong with him."

"Nothing except his wife been taken," Brenna grumbled. Declan shot her a look and muttered a phrase that Sam and Dean couldn't follow. Brenna paled slightly and remained silent.

"Well, looks like we have some work to do," Dean said, flattening his hands on the table.

Sam took his brother's cue and stood. "We'll, uh, talk to you both in the morning."

Brenna stood, too, nodding at them, still silent. Dean narrowed his eyes and watched as she moved away from them and to the small door he'd taken as a storage room. She sighed and rolled her shoulders in a manner that spoke of true weariness. As she walked she reached back and gathered her hair from her neck, twisting it up in a bun. Dean caught a glimpse of a tattoo on the back of her neck. It read: _Creideamh_. He didn't know what the word meant, but he had a feeling that the image of the curve of her neck and that tattoo was going to linger long after she was out of his sight.

"Dean." Sam's voice sounded to his right.

"Yeah. Coming."

They walked silently back to their room, each lost in their own thoughts. When they walked into the room, Dean flopped fully clothed onto the bed nearest the door and rested his arm over his eyes. He could feel Sam watching him.

"I'm fine, Sam."

"Right."

He peaked an eye out from behind his arm. "Dude, seriously. It's been a long day."

Sam was standing at the foot of his bed, his hands resting on his hips, looking down at him. "A long day where we find out that Dad talks to pretty much everyone but us."

"The man has his reasons."

"Goddammit, Dean, why can you just admit that he pisses you off!"

Dean sighed and sat up, pulling his coat from his shoulders. "Because he doesn't."

Sam narrowed his eyes at the back of his brother's head. "I don't believe you."

Dean leaned over and pulled off his boots. He was growing wearier by the moment, as though someone had shoved a tap in his side and was draining out his energy. He knew it was the fact that he and Sam consistently returned to this conversation. Sam was like a dog with a bone when he was convinced he was right but no one would acknowledge him. Without answering his brother, he pulled his jeans off, left them in a pile on top of his boots by his bed, reached into his duffle for his knife, then slid it under his pillow.

"Dean!"

"What!"

"I don't believe he doesn't piss you off."

"Sam, whether you believe me or not is out of my control."

Sam pulled his eyebrows together. That wasn't like Dean. "You okay?" he asked suddenly, his voice an octave softer than his previous bellow. He ducked his head to get a glimpse of Dean's face.

"Yeah, man. Go to sleep."

Sam watched as Dean rolled to his stomach and pulled the covers with him. He sighed, knowing he wasn't going to get any further with his brother tonight. He grabbed a shower, letting the hot water ease the muscles that always ached from riding in the car for endless hours, and when he returned to the room he checked on Dean again. His brother's face was mashed into the pillow, his arms wrapped around it and Sam knew one hand was curled around the hilt of his knife.

He climbed into the other bed and hoped desperately for a solid night of sleep.

www

_Dean was running._

_This time he could see it was away from something. He was running down a hall of stone, towards a destination covered by darkness. He turned, chin first, then shoulders, his face bleeding heavily, and raised his arm – his left arm, his wrong arm – and fired. _

_A scream echoed and made him stumble. The scream was terrible – like the screech of a dying bird amplified tenfold. Dean went to his knees, look back towards the darkness, then turned and fired again – with his left arm...always his left._

_A shadow passed over his face and the scream echoed again. Something bore down on him and Dean cried out "Sam, keep going! Don't look back! Don't come back for me!"_

Sam woke with a start. The room was dark, silent. Had it been a dream? It was the same – the exact same – as before, only this time it lasted longer and he could see things clearer. He lifted a shaking head to wipe the sweat from his head. His head pounded like it had after a vision, the pain collecting behind his eyes in a dull throb. But the last time he'd had a vision, he'd been awake. Both times with this one he'd been sleeping. And they didn't have that same sense of urgency…

He turned to check on Dean and was surprised to see his brother's bed was empty. He sat up quickly and looked over to the bathroom. The light was off and the door was open. His eyes flew to the small table where Dean had tossed the keys to the Impala when they'd entered. The keys glinted in the faded light seeping in through the crack in the curtains. Sam looked to the clock. It was only 3am. Where the hell was he?

He got up from the bed and grabbed his jeans, pulling them on as he walked to the door. He opened it with force, anticipating a run to the car and stopped short when he saw Dean standing outside, shirtless in only his jeans standing outside leaning over the railing and studying something in his hands. Sam could see silver glinting in the waning moonlight. His cell phone?

"You okay?"

Sam jumped a little at the sound of Dean's voice. He'd been so in his head since waking from the vision, he was surprised to hear him.

"Uh, yeah… couldn't sleep." He walked over to stand next to his brother, leaning his backside against the railing and looking down at Dean. "What'er you doing out here, man?"

"Dad called."

Sam started. "What?"

"Left a voicemail. I slept through the ring. Can you believe it?" Dean chuckled mirthlessly. "Been looking for the man for almost a year and I sleep through the fucking ring."

Sam pulled his eyebrows together at the darkness in Dean's voice. "Man, I did, too. Don't be –"

Dean shifted sideways to look up at Sam. "What, Sam? Hard on myself?" He shook his head. Looked back at the cell. "Fucking voicemail."

He tossed the phone at Sam. Then pushed away from the rail and started to walk away.

"Hey – where are you goin?"

"For a walk."

"Dean… you don't even have shoes on, man."

"I won't freeze to death, Sam."

"Dean, wait… I'll… I'll come with you."

Dean stopped walking and let his shoulders drop. "Just…listen to the message, Sammy. I need a minute, okay?"

Sam watched him walk away from the motel and toward the garage behind the Kavanagh house. He sighed and flipped open the phone. The sound of his father's voice saying more than _This is John Winchester. I can't be reached. If you need help, call my son, Dean. He can help_… was a shock to his system.

"_Dean. Answer you phone, Son. Listen, this witch is dangerous. She is taking people related to the Kavanaghs for a reason. I think Declan may be in danger. You watch out for him. You get this bitch, Dean. I think she may be related to him… do this for me, Son. Find her. Burn her. And take care of your brother."_

Sam cringed at his father's sign-off. _Take care of your brother._ How often in his lifetime had he heard his Dad say those very words to Dean? As if Dean could ever forget. As if he would. Then Sam thought about what he didn't hear his Dad say. _I am glad you're okay, Son. I miss you. I love you. _He didn't even think his Dad knew how to say that particular four-letter word. He wondered if it had ever been said to Dean.

He remembered Dean saying it to him when they were kids. When he was scared or lonely or just needed reassurance. Dean had said, "You know I love you Sammy." As they grew, he stopped saying the words, but Sam saw it each day in his actions. In every teasing remark, in every blow that he took instead of Sam, in every step that he took putting himself in danger instead of his brother, Dean said 'I love you'. Sam flipped the phone shut and looked into the darkness where he brother had gone. He'd give him a few minutes then, go fetch him back.

Dean walked sightlessly toward the garage, his father's words echoing in his head. He tried to shove away the hurt and focus on the information his Dad had given him, but he was having trouble zeroing in on what was important. He wanted to run really hard until his lungs burned. He wanted to drive really fast until he was far away. He wanted to hit something, hard, until his arms ached. Instead, he stopped inside the doorway of the garage and stood absolutely still. He barely breathed. He just…stood.

He stared at the four cars Declan had told him were parked in the garage. They were a sad sight. A 1972 Chevy Nova, faded blue paint giving way to rust. A 1969 Porsche Boxter, covered in grey primer paint and up on blocks. A 1982 Grande National, black – it was probably in the best shape. And a 1965 red Ford Mustang convertible, front seats missing, real wheels missing, and a tree growing out of the engine block.

Dean sighed. He would die before he let the Impala give way to rust. He cared for his baby like he cared for nothing else, save Sam. Speaking of Sam, he knew he should stop pouting and go back to their room. Sam worried like a mother hen. If he stayed away long enough, Sam would come after him. Plus, he was getting cold.

He felt the presence behind him before he heard anything. He knew it wasn't Sam immediately. It didn't _feel_ like Sam. It felt…foreign, dangerous. He cursed himself for his vulnerability. He'd left everything back in the room to wander off and pout about how Daddy didn't love him enough. He felt the presence exhale and quick as lightening he turned, grabbed it and pinned it to the wall.

He was not expecting to be face-to-face with a pair of bird-like yellow-green eyes and a rosebud mouth. He was not expecting to smell lavender. And he was not expecting the knee to his mid-section. The air rushed out of him and he stumbled backwards.

"What the hell…" he gasped, wrapping an arm around his belly.

"What are you doing here!"

"I could ask you the same question," Dean wheezed.

"No you couldn't. I live here."

"It's 3am and you're in the garage."

"Exactly."

Dean straightened gingerly and rubbed his hand carefully over his stomach. "This is going nowhere," he said, turning to leave.

"Hey," Brenna cried, grabbing his arm. "I – "

She never finished. Instinctively, Dean had reacted to her hand on his arm, twisted out of her grasp, and had her pinned to the wall again in second. This time, though, he stood close enough that she couldn't get a leg up to knee him and both wrists were pinned next to her head. She gasped for breath, surprised at his strength and speed. His chest was bare, his skin warm. He panted a bit, surprised at the effect her closeness had on him.

"I was just going to say," Brenna breathed out, "That I was sorry."

"For what?"

"For misjudging you earlier in the café."

"Oh, I thought it might have been for sucker-punching me just now."

"No, that you deserved."

Their faces were inches apart and Dean could feel her warm breath on his face. His eyes darted from hers down the path of her nose to her mouth. For a brief moment he considered sucking on her bottom lip, and then his eyes darted back up to hers. Her eyes seemed to grow a bit as she stared at him, and he felt suddenly strange, like he couldn't move away from her, but like he was floating away at the same time.

"Wha—" he started. The feeling of vertigo intensified, but he couldn't pull his eyes away. He was aware of the increased rate of her breathing. Her chest touched his as she pulled in breaths. He found that it was hard for him to breathe at all. His periphery vision began to swim and he tried to blink his eyes but she held his gaze.

"Dean?"

Sam's voice called from outside the garage. Brenna blinked at the sound and Dean stumbled backwards away from her. She pressed her lips together for a moment, contemplated saying something to him, but heard his brother just outside the door. She pushed Dean completely away so that she could escape in the other direction, not watching as he wavered and stumbled to his knees.

"Dean!" Sam's bellow was closer, Dean could tell he was just outside the door. He was thankful because the world was spinning and he wasn't sure he would be able to stand up on his own, let alone get back to the motel room.

"Whoa, hey, man, you okay?" Sam's voice grew soft and came closer.

Dean tried to nod, but the world tilted suddenly and he found himself laying against the cold cement of the garage floor trying to stay conscious. What the hell had she done to him?

Sam sprinted the last couple of feet to his brother, alarmed by the way Dean had slumped over onto the ground. He was pale and trembling slightly. He reached for him, carefully pulling him to sitting position.

"Easy, it's okay, I've got you."

Dean sat up and pulled his knees to him, folding his arms across them and resting his forehead on his arms. "What the fuck was that?"

"I don't know, man. I came out here and you just keeled over."

"It was Brenna."

Sam put a hand on the back of Dean's neck, trying to comfort and still the visible shaking. "What was Brenna?"

"She was out here," Dean would never admit it to his brother, but the warm hand was comforting and seemed to help ground him. His reality that had been spinning came to rest and he started to feel solid again. "Sh-she… I don't know… put a whammy on me."

Sam left his hand resting lightly on the back of Dean's neck, but lifted an eyebrow. "A whammy?"

Dean shrugged. At that, Sam lifted his hand, thinking his brother was shrugging away from his touch. Dean was sorry, but didn't correct him. "I don't know, man. She surprised me, punched me, I pinned her to the wall, and then things got all… swirly."

Sam looked down at Dean, head still cradled on his arms.

"Let's get you back to the room," he said, hauling Dean to his feet from under the arms. When Dean was steady, he looked at Sam, a silent 'thanks' in his eyes. Sam gave him a half-grin 'don't mention it' back and they started to walk to the room.

"Sam," Dean said as they reached their door.

"Yeah?"

"You know I'd always watch out for you, right? Even without Dad…"

Sam leveled his eyes on Dean's. "I know, Dean."

"Good."

www

"Dean, if you do not stop tapping that pen I'm going to kill you," Sam growled not looking up from the computer. They had been in the small motel room since breakfast trying to determine what kind of witch they were up against with no luck. Nothing they found pointed to a witch that was able to connect the victims psychically. Sam thought that maybe it was a spell and had started searching for spells about two hours again.

Dean dropped the pen and started pacing. Sam kept his face pointed toward the computer but lifted his eyes to watch his brother. Dean paced the same eight steps, back and forth, clenching and unclenching his fists, his jaw working into knots.

"Dean!"

Dean jumped at Sam's bark. "What?"

"Go. Outside. Go… work on the car or something."

"What? No, I'm helping you."

"No you're not. Get out of here."

Dean sighed. Looking at Sam with what might pass for glee, he said, "I guess I could ask if Declan would mind if I worked on a couple of those cars out back."

"Yes. Go. Do that."

"You gonna be okay?"

"Hell, yes."

Dean almost sprinted out of the door. He made his way to the bar/café and dropped down onto one of the barstools, waiting while Declan finished cleaning the pint glasses.

"You thirsty this early, boy?"

"You got anybody working on those cars out back?"

Declan looked confused. "Cars?"

Dean lifted a brow. "Yes. Cars. In the garage."

Declan's eyes darkened. "Those aren't my cars, son."

Dean cocked his head to the side. "Whose are they?"

Declan shrugged. "Different family members pass on sudden like, I keep the cars. Kind of a memorial."

Dean thought about the condition of the cars he'd seen. "You sell some of those memorials for parts, there old man?"

Declan narrowed his eyes. "Just because you're John's boy ain't no reason to smart off."

Dean gave him a side grin, "See, that's just the thing. I don't need a reason." He narrowed his eyes. "Something about this case has been off from the start. What aren't you telling us?"

Declan avoided Dean's keen gaze. "Those cars are from family members who were taken."

"Taken?"

Declan nodded. "_Taken_."

Dean lifted a brow and pressed his lips together. "Taken like the mayor was taken? Like the sheriff's wife was taken?"

Declan nodded once.

"The mayor, the sheriff's wife, they related to you?"

Declan nodded again, continuing to wipe the same place on the bar with a wet white bar towel.

Dean thought back to the years of the cars. "So…this has been going on since… the sixty's?" At Declan's third nod, Dean continued, "Why are you just now asking for help?"

Declan sighed. "The sheriff's wife was Brenna's aunt. Her mom's sister. Brenna's my granddaughter."

Dean sat back. So it had to hit close enough to home, apparently, for Declan to take action. "Same deal every time? One gets taken, apparently tortured, and then the body is returned while the other goes crazy from the phantom pain?"

Declan's chin trembled a bit. "Mostly. Bodies aren't always returned. And it's not the pain that drives them crazy. It's knowing that their loved one is going through it for real and there's nothing they can do about it. It's the helplessness."

Dean leaned forward, fingers folded together. "You have to know more than you're saying. Sammy and me, we got nothing. All Dad is saying is that it's a witch. But we can't help you if we don't know what kind, man."

Declan lifted his dark eyes to meet Dean's and for a moment it looked like he was going to say something. Then the door behind him swung open and Brenna walked in, startling him. He shook his head, and turned around to head back to the kitchen, brushing passed Brenna without a word.

She pulled her eyebrows together, glaring at Dean. "What did you say to him?"

Dean pulled his head back. "I didn't say anything to him. I'm trying to help you people."

Brenna narrowed her eyes. "Sure." She tried to ignore the fact that his grey T-shirt outlined the curve of the chest she still remembered clearly from last night, and accented his well-muscled arms perfectly. She also tried to ignore the fact that his hazel-green eyes lit up when he was pissed. Like he was now.

Dean pressed his hands flat against the bar and leaned over close to her. "Listen, lady, I don't know what kind of mojo you're working here, but don't forget that _you_ called _us_ for help."

"Well don't do us any favors, Winchester," she spat at him.

"Fine!" He pushed away from the bar.

"Fine!" she hurried around the corner and stopped his exit. "And another thing, I am not working any _mojo_ as you put it."

Dean lifted his hands in a mock surrender. "Whatever you say."

"I'm not! You were the one sneaking around last night."

Dean tried to move passed her, but she stepped in his path. "What the hell, _Kavanagh_," he said, mimicking her use of his last name.

"I want you to admit that you were the one where you shouldn't have been last night."

"Honey, you can just wait until hell freezes over then, because I'm not admitting to anything," his green eyes raked over her face seductively and he stepped closer to her, challenging her. His eyes darted to her mouth and he found himself imagining what it would be like to suck on her bottom lip.

Brenna pulled in a breath, and as Dean watched, her eyes grew wide.

"No, no way," he said closing his eyes, and turning his head. "You got some strange witchy power that I – "

He stopped and looked at her suddenly, startled. She went pale. He blinked at her… thinking.

"No," she whispered, shaking her head. "No, Dean."

"No what," he whispered back, his voice betraying his confusion.

"I'm not."

"Dean!" Sam's voice startled him. He looked up to see Sam barreling through the front doors, and turned back to watch Brenna back away.

"What is it, Sam," said, wearily, turning to face his brother.

Sam stopped when he saw Dean. Something about the way he stood, the expression on his face, how he held himself, gave Sam a bad feeling. He was reminded how Dean had looked in Nebraska. "You okay?"

Dean nodded, waving his hand in the air as if to say 'I'm always okay, what's on your mind'.

"They just found the sheriff's wife."

Dean's eyebrows went up. "Found her?"

"Yeah, she was hanging from a tree about 5 miles down the road, just off the property of an abandoned mill house."

"Dead?"

"Unfortunately. And she looked like she'd been stabbed through by a…poker or firebrand of some kind. Man, this is not a normal witch we're dealing with here."

Dean thought of Brenna's face when he'd mentioned the idea that she had powers. "I gotta agree with you there, brother."

Sam narrowed his eyes. "What is it?"

Dean shook his head. "Never mind. Think we should check out this mill house?"

Sam shrugged. "Good a place to start as any. I've researched this thing to death."

Dean nodded. "Let's go."

Sam turned and all but sprinted out of the door. Dean followed, glancing behind him once to see Brenna's strange eyes watching him from the shadow of the kitchen doorway. He lingered for a moment, wondering if the witch they hunted were closer to home than either of them thought.


	2. Part 2: Banshee

**Disclaimer/Spoilers:** See Part 1

_So I lied. I know. I feel shame. This story has suddenly taken on a bit of a life of its own and the three part idea, while noble, is so not possible anymore. I'm thinking more like six parts at this rate. If I'm too wordy, tell me. Thanks so much for your reviews, and for reading this. I hope you enjoy!_

The Impala rumbled up to the mill house, drawing attention of the police and news crews still gathered at the scene. Dean drove slowly by, tossing a casual wave to the deputy who ducked his head to get a look at the driver.

"Just passing by officer…you basic curious bystanders…no we're not planning on breaking into your crime scene in a minute…" Dean muttered softly under his breath, a polite smile on his face.

The deputy gave Dean a mock salute off the brim of his hat in response to the wave, and Dean drove down the road, pulling off at the first bend in the road. They locked the car, and walked back towards the house.

"So, you're saying that this has been going on since the sixties?" Sam shoved his hands into his front jeans pockets and looked sideways at Dean.

"Looks like," Dean shrugged twisting his right hand palm up in a 'what are you gonna do' gesture. "But if that's the case then…"

Sam prompted him with a nod. "Then what."

"Nothin'."

"What, Dean."

Dean stopped walking, pressing his lips together and looked off over the field that surrounded them and led to the mill house. "I don't know Sammy… I just…" he sighed and rubbed at his neck with his hand. "I got this feeling about Brenna…"

Sam's lips quirked, "A need to get a room feeling, or a grab the crucifix feeling?" he taunted.

Dean narrowed his eyes at his brother. "Hilarious." He started walking away.

Sam chuckled, hurrying to catch up. "Wait, man. I was kidding."

Dean stopped again so suddenly Sam almost walked into him. "I think she has some kind of… I don't know… power." He lifted his hands helplessly.

Sam cocked his head to the side. "Dean, you're not thinking…"

Dean just looked at him.

Sam shifted his weight from one leg to the other. "You're not thinking she's doing this."

Dean shrugged. "I dunno. Maybe. I mean… Dad just said witch. He said he'd seen it before. He said it was specifically directed at the Kavanaghs…"

"Yeah, but, Dean, she _is_ a Kavanagh."

Dean's eyebrows met over the bridge of his nose. "I know that, man, I'm not an idiot."

Sam lifted his hands in mock surrender, saying nothing.

"I'm just telling you what I felt."

Sam watched his brother's face for a moment. As Sam watched, Dean caught his bottom lip in his teeth, worrying it a bit before looking back at his brother.

"What?"

"Nothing, man. Just wondering if there's something else going on here," Sam said.

"Like what?" Dean said, confused.

"Like…" and then it dawned on Sam. "Like you… _like _her."

"Shut up," Dean waved a hand at him dismissively and continued to walk to the mill house.

"That's it!" Sam said, thinking back to Dean's reaction to Brenna. He hadn't hit on her immediately like he would have any other good looking woman in his orbit for more than five minutes. Sure, she'd shot him down, but… "You _like _her."

"Sam, I swear to God you say that one more time I'm going to clock you."

Sam just chuckled and followed him to the tree line at the outskirts of the mill house. They watched, hidden, in silence until they saw the police and news crews clearing away. By the time they were able to duck under the crime scene tape and sprint to the side of the mill house, it was dusk.

"Why are we always sneaking into these places at night?" Sam muttered.

"What, you scared, Francis?"

"Shut up."

They moved stealthily along the outer stone wall, avoiding being seen by the last of the police, and quickly entered through the heavy wooden door at the back. Sam noticed as they entered that the mill wheel was silent and still in the stagnant water, moss hanging off of it in long tendrils. The inside of the mill house was cool and damp, moss clinging to the stone walls there, too. Dean twisted on the small flashlight he always carried, and moved ahead of Sam into the dark recesses of the house.

Sam watched him walk away and a sudden sensation of vertigo overcame him. He put his hand against the cold, damp wall for support and a blinding pain flashed behind his eyes. He couldn't see the room he stood in anymore – he only saw Dean, running from him down a dark hallway lined with mossy stone, face bleeding onto an already bloody shirt, firing behind him with his left hand – why was that so important? – calling back to him to _go, don't look back, don't come back for me_.

He didn't feel himself fall to his knees in the entry room of the stone mill house, he didn't hear his own cry of fear and pain, he didn't notice the way he clutched at his head to try to press against the harsh throb of pain…he only saw Dean, running, falling to his knees, firing and then…

"Oh, God…" he moaned, clutching his head. He saw a figure swoop over Dean – a figure wrapped in what looked like rags, hair hanging limply down its back, hands with long, lethal nails reaching out for Dean and slicing through his neck effectively silencing his brief cry of pain.

The nausea that rose from watching his brother die was so sudden that Sam almost didn't have time to fall forward to his hands before everything he'd eaten that day came up with a violent heave. When the retching stopped, he was aware of Dean's hand on his back rubbing in slow circles, his voice in his ear speaking softly. He realized suddenly that Dean had been talking low and slow since the vision had slammed into him. His voice had been a constant hum in the background, keeping him from spinning into the gray void that always threatened to engulf him when the visions were this brutal.

"Easy, man. I got you. I got you," Dean was saying, still rubbing his back like he had when they were kids and Sam was sick.

Sam took a breath and sat back on his haunches, then leaned back against the wall, wiping a shaking hand across his mouth, wishing for a drink of water. His head throbbed painfully, but at least he could see around himself now.

"You back with me, Sammy?"

Sam nodded, not opening his eyes.

"Want to tell me what you saw?"

"Same thing," Sam muttered.

"Same thing?" Dean stopped rubbing his back, and rested a sturdy hand on his brother's shoulder. "Me running and shooting something?"

"This time you died," Sam said, his voice shaking on the last word.

"Well, that's a cheery thought."

Sam opened his eyes, blinking away the wetness there so that he could focus on Dean. "It was here, man. You died here."

Dean tilted his head back, absorbing this information. He'd once told Sam it didn't freak him out that had visions. He meant it then. But Sam had now seen him die twice. That did freak him out a bit. But by the look of his little brother at the moment, this was not open and honest hour. He needed to cowboy up and convince Sam that they would get through this.

"Well, you saw it for a reason, right? We just make sure I don't fall down a hole or something," Dean said, attempting levity.

Sam wasn't deterred. "No, it was a… spirit or something. She stabbed you," Sam swallowed convulsively, "through the throat."

"Eew, Sammy. No wonder you tossed your cookies."

Sam paled. "Do you have to talk about it?"

Dean quirked his lips downward. "Sorry I brought it up."

Sam moaned. "Bad choice of words, Dude."

Dean grimaced. "Sorry. Listen, you ready to check the rest of this place out, or have you seen enough?"

Sam thought for a moment. "It wasn't a witch."

"Come again?"

"That killed you – it wasn't a witch. I – I think it was a – banshee."

www

"Declan!" Dean bellowed as the boys banged through the doors of the bar. "You got some 'splainin' to do!"

The bar was dark and silent. Sam and Dean looked around at the empty room, then back at each other.

"Think they bailed on us?" Sam mused.

"Hardly," Declan said, from a shadowed area to the left of the bar. "Closed out of respect for our time of mourning."

"Riiight," Dean drawled, heading over to the shadow. He'd not missed the slur in Declan's words. The man was apparently choosing to look for his solutions at the bottom of a bottle of Jameson.

"Where's your granddaughter, old man?"

"Brenna's not here."

"Yeah, I got that," Dean said, picking up the bottle and looking at the amount left. He set it back down, flicked a chair around backwards with one hand, and swung his leg across it, resting his arms on the back and facing Declan. Sam stood behind him, watching Declan carefully.

"You been lying to us, Declan," Dean said, his voice soft, low, and dangerous. "We don't like that very much."

"I never thought she'd still be here."

Sam's eyes flicked from the back of Dean's head to Declan's bleary eyes. "What do you mean?"

"She was betrayed and tortured… she vowed revenge, but I never thought she'd…"

Dean's back was tight and he felt his fingers involuntarily curl into fists. "Where is she, Declan?"

Declan blinked blurrily at him. "How the hell should I know, boy? You think if I knew that I'd be sitting here?"

"She's dangerous, Declan," Sam said, his voice soft, as though breaking bad news to the man. "Tell us what spell she's using so that we can stop her from hurting anyone else."

Declan blinked his eyes from Dean up to Sam and then back again. "What in the Sam Hill are you boys talking about?"

Dean cocked his head to the side. "Brenna."

Declan's eyebrows shot up. "Brenna?!" He barked out a harsh laugh that caused both boys to jump. "You think _Brenna's_ doing this?"

Sam shifted his feet. "Well, in a way. We figured she's controlling the banshee."

At that word, Declan sobered. Dean lifted an eyebrow. "You knew all along that it was a banshee, didn't you?"

Declan looked down at the table. "A bean-sidhe. A harbinger of death."

Dean's jaw hardened. "Did you know when you called our Dad?"

Declan nodded once. Dean sat back and digested that. John's voicemail had been so…so _sure._ He sounded like he had every other time he'd sent Dean on hunts, given him orders on what to kill and how. Dean had never asked why – he'd never needed to. Dad said it was evil. Evil dies. End of story. But Declan had known what evil this was and John had not. Dean wasn't sure where to put that, so he decided to ignore it for a moment.

"How do we stop her, Declan?" Sam asked, bring Dean back to the present.

Declan shrugged. "I knew that, think there would be so many cars in my garage?"

Sam looked down at Dean. He knew that banshee's were tied to certain Celtic clans, and he knew that they traditionally foretell death with a horrendous screeching cry, but he never heard of one who killed the way he'd seen his brother die. Still, something told him that that was exactly what he'd seen in his vision. The banshee had killed Dean, and apparently she was responsible for the deaths of the mayor and the sheriff's wife.

Dean wasn't looking at Declan. He wasn't looking at anything. His eyes were fixed to a spot on the table, but his gaze was deep inside.

"Dean?"

"He was wrong, Sammy," Dean said softly.

"What?"

Dean looked back at his brother over his shoulder. "He was wrong."

The look in Dean's eyes shook Sam. For a moment, his big brother who had always been his constant, his anchor, looked rudderless. Dean blinked and the look was gone, but Sam wasn't about to forget it. He turned back to Declan.

"Start at the beginning – you said she was betrayed…"

Before Declan could open his mouth a cry of anger and loud crash sounded from the kitchen. All three men started and turned toward the swinging door behind the bar. A stream of Gaelic in a very loud, very angry female voice carried past the doors. Declan sighed and sunk deeper into his chair. The boys exchanged a look, then looked back at Declan.

He shrugged at them, grabbed the bottle of Jameson and swallowed the last of it in one gulp. "Brenna's back," he rasped.

The yelling grew in volume and Sam winced as he heard something else crash. "What is she saying?"

Declan shook his head. "You don't want to know." His eyes shifted from Dean's eyes to Sam's. "She's angry."

"You're kidding," Dean deadpanned.

Declan pressed quivering lips together. "I never saw it, she says. What good is this power if I never see it happening, she says. I could have warned them, I could have stopped it, she says."

Dean looked up as his brother sank bonelessly into the chair next to him, staring with shock at Declan. "Sammy?"

"Sh-she has visions?" Sam asked through a strangled voice.

Declan shook his head, not noticing Sam's distress. Dean's focus was on his brother; he barely heard Declan's next words.

"She has sight."

"Sammy, you okay, man?" Dean asked, not liking how pale Sam suddenly got.

"What does that mean, she has sight?" Sam whispered, steadying his trembling hands by spreading them flat against the table. He was aware of Dean's intense stare, but ignored him for the moment, trying to get the answer from Declan. "Sight like, she can tell the future?"

Declan pulled a face at him. "She's no gypsy, boy. She's a druid."

At that, Dean looked up away from Sam and to Declan. Another crash sounded from the kitchen, making all of them jump again. "Druid? Didn't they like die out before Christianity?"

Declan shrugged, "For the most part. But you can't erase destiny. There are some still around. Practicing or not, they still have power. Brenna can see people. You can't lie to her. She sees who you really are, not who you tell yourself you are." He looked up at Dean.

"Arrgh!" Another crash and then the silence that followed was eerie. Sam looked over his shoulder at the doors to the kitchen, expecting to see her come in to the empty bar, but there was no movement.

"Think she's okay?"

Declan raised a brow. "You want to be the one that goes in there to find out?"

Sam meekly shook his head. Dean chewed his lip for a moment. "Sam, there anything in Dad's journal about banshee's?"

Sam shrugged. "I'd have to look."

"You wait here, I'll go get it."

"I'll come with you," Sam offered, starting to stand.

"No, wait here," Dean said, still not liking the pallor of his brother's features. "I'll be right back."

www

As he stepped out of the dark bar into the darker night, Dean took a breath. The air was still, and cool. He glanced up. They were far enough from any city that the stars blanketed the sky. When he was a kid he'd loved nights like this. He felt powerful and the future looked…possible. He started to turn to the motel room, when the buzz of his cell phone in his pocket made him jump.

He dug it out, flipped it open, and almost stopped breathing. Dad.

"Dad?" he said, his voice sounding young and uncertain in his own ears.

"_Dean."_

"God, Dad, it's good to hear from you. You okay?"

"_I'm fine, Dean. Listen, you have to get Declan away from there. The witch is coming after him next."_

Dean allowed himself a moment to wonder how his Dad got his information before replying. "Dad, it isn't a witch."

"_What are you talking about? Yes it is, Son."_

"No, Dad, listen. It's a banshee. We just found out tonight."

"_A banshee's a type of witch, Dean."_

It was said with such a tone of contempt that Dean outwardly cringed.

"_Listen, I've been doing some digging. I know who it is."_

"You do?"

"_Declan's granddaughter, Brenna. She comes from a line of druid queens. They have powers, visions. They can read minds, move objects."_

"But, Dad, aren't banshee's…spirits? I mean, aren't they…dead?"

John's sigh was audible over the cell. Dean pressed his lips against his teeth, berating himself for questioning his Dad.

"_Listen, Dean, she's dangerous. She needs to be stopped. She isn't human, Son, not completely. Her visions will give her an advantage. Attack her during the day and –"_

"Dad, I think you're wrong on this. I don't think she's – "

"_Listen to me, Son. She is evil. You do your job, you hear me? Do. Your. Job."_

The click on the other end of the phone echoed in Dean's ear. He stared at his phone for a full minute before clicking it shut. His Dad kept talking about Brenna's visions. What was he going to say when he found out about Sam? Dean actually trembled a little. Was the world so black and white for John that Sam might be considered supernatural, too? That he might be considered… dangerous? Evil even?

A crash from the garage startled him. He heard Brenna's voice following, and then another crash. Apparently, her swath of destruction had moved on to the garage. Dean forgot about getting the journal and turned toward the garage. He rounded the corner and reared back in surprise as a careless toss of a tire iron narrowly missed grazing his skull.

"Whoa! Easy," he exclaimed.

Brenna whipped around, her curls bouncing wildly, her face colored red from anger, and her eyes… Dean had to control a startled glance at her eyes. The irises had gone so wide that there was barely any white showing and her pupils were dilated to match. If he hadn't known better, he would have thought he was looking at the eyes of a bird of prey.

"What are you doing here?" she spat at him.

Dean held his hands up, palms outward in an 'I come in peace' gesture. "Thought I'd see what the commotion was about."

Brenna turned from him, grabbed a wrench and hurled it across the garage with a might grunt. "The commotion," she said, as the wrench hit one of the remaining windows in the Chevy Nova, shattering it, "is me trying to get back at the universe."

"Dealt a bad hand were you?"

She whirled on him again, watching as he cautiously got closer to her. "What, and you weren't?"

Dean stopped moving. "What are you talking about?"

"Think I don't know who you were just on the phone with? What he told you, no, _ordered_ you to do?"

Dean went cold. "We're not talking about me."

"Why not, Dean?"

"I'm not the one out here throwing wrenches."

She put her hands on her hips. "Why not, Dean?"

He pulled his eyebrows together. "What do you mean why not?"

"Why aren't you angry? Why are you breaking things? Why don't you let yourself lose control?" She narrowed her eyes at him, the size and color easing back to the normal yellow-green he had become used to seeing. "You're afraid."

Dean took a step back. "Hey, I just came out here to see –"

"You came out here to see if your Dad was right." She said, stepping closer to him, barely three feet away. "You came out here because you're afraid he's wrong."

Dean grimaced. "I'm not –"

"Yeah, you are. You don't know what to do if your Dad is wrong."

Dean's eyes hardened and he took a step closer to her, leaning in, his face inches from hers. His voice became a low growl. "Look, I know you think you can see me, but I am telling you now. Back. The. Hell. Off."

She didn't move. "You're awfully quick to accept that I have the sight."

"Honey, the things I've seen, fought, and killed in my lifetime would freeze your blood. A little _insight_ isn't going to shake me." His chin tipped down and his dangerous eyes looked at her through his lashes.

"Except if it's to see inside you. Even your brother can't do that."

If Brenna hadn't been so blinded by her own fury, she would have trembled at the sudden coldness in Dean's eyes. "You leave him out of this."

"Why, Dean? It's all I see when I look at you. I look at your eyes and you don't reflect back at me – it's just your Dad and Sam."

He pulled his eyebrows together. "What the hell does that even mean?"

"Where are _you_, Dean?"

A muscle in his jaw jumped and his lips parted to toss back a retort when she spoke again. "He doesn't trust you, is that it?"

Dean stared at her. "Sam trusts me."

"Not Sam."

"You don't know what it is you're seeing. You're just catching glimpses. You can't see the whole picture," Dean said through clenched teeth, his shoulders rolling as though he were preparing to fight.

Brenna pressed her lips together, then reached up and clasped the side of his face with her right hand. He gasped at the touch, tried to pull away, and found he couldn't move. Her palm was hot against his cheek, her fingers curling around his jaw. Her thumb rested just below his left eye, and he felt her caress the scar there courtesy of a wendigo claw when he was eighteen.

Brenna blinked. It was if suddenly she saw three of him. She saw the confident, cocky, badass, seducer of women who relieved men of their money at games of pool and women of their phone numbers soon after. She saw that image he'd fabricated super-imposed on top of a warrior -- a fierce protector who would not hesitate to give his life for those he loved… and he loved them completely. Then she saw the boy. A lonely, sad, frightened boy who never once had anyone ever tell him that it was okay to need.

"What…" he began, but couldn't seem to go on.

She saw all three Dean's at once and as they shimmered in his eyes she felt herself leaning forward as though falling into a deep green pool. Desire warred with fear and battled need inside of her. She suddenly wanted him -- more than she'd ever wanted anything in her life. She knew she could have power over him, but she didn't want to use it. She wanted him to see her.

"Dean," her whisper caught in her throat and she watched his eyes widen slightly, his head tilt imperceptibly to the right as though trying to listen for a far-off sound. "Trust me."

His eyebrows pulled together then and his eyes grew wary. She knew he only truly trusted one person in the world. Sam was it. He didn't even honestly trust John like he did his brother. Though both had left him, Brenna saw that John's departure felt to Dean like a betrayal, while Sam's had just felt too soon. Sam was his world, and she was asking him to open his boundaries. She knew she was asking him what might be an impossible task. His body was tense, his fists clenched at his side, and she could feel the muscle in his jaw bunch beneath her hand.

"I won't hurt you."

"That's not what worries me," Dean muttered through clenched teeth.

With a monumental effort, he took a step back from her, breaking her hold on him, and allowing her hand to slide slowly from his face. Her fingers trailed lightly across his lips as he pulled his face back and away.

"Then what does?"

She felt his energy rippling off of him in waves. She stood as still as she watched him slowly drag his eyes from the ground to her face, his long lashes shadowing the green of his eyes. His lips twitched once and she heard his breath hitch in his chest and suddenly he was standing directly in front of her and his hands were in her hair. As his mouth descended onto hers, she instinctively reached up and grasped his forearms. Felt the muscles beneath his skin roll as his fingers knotted in her curls.

His lips were soft, as she'd known they would be. He kissed her slow at first, then when she willingly responded, he opened his mouth slightly and she brazenly took his bottom lip between her own, tugging it deeper into her mouth. She felt him tense, and she knew he was about to pull away. She darted her tongue quickly across that lip and heard an almost primal groan deep from within him. Without releasing her head, he pulled his face from hers and looked at her. His eyes seemed almost lost.

A muscle flinched in his jaw as he continued to look at her, suddenly aware of their closeness. His right leg was between hers, and his hands were still fisted at the back of her head. Their bodies touched from knee to waist and only the need to look at each others' faces parted them from there. Brenna's height made it easy to look directly into her eyes without tilting his head down much and her slight, powerful frame balanced him in a way he found...disturbing.

The need to kiss her had surprised him. He had to walk away from her, he knew that. His whole body screamed at him to leave, but as he turned from her something inside of him screamed louder to stay -- so loud in fact that he was surprised Sam hadn't heard something back at the bar. That kiss had rocked him. And now...now he didn't want to let her go.

"Are you doing this to me?" he asked, his voice sounding strange and hoarse to his ears. Strained as though the scream he'd imagined emanating from his body earlier had been real. "I don't… can't tell if this is us, or…"

"It's just us, Dean. I promise you. Please... _please_ trust me. '"

He wanted to, _God_ he wanted to.

"I'm not what he thinks I am. I'm not evil, Dean," she whispered.

The mention of his father was like a blast of cold air on his heated skin. He bared his teeth and pulled his lips back in a growl of frustration. Her eyes narrowed at him slightly and he felt his heart pick up speed. He slowly uncurled his fingers as though letting go of the tenuous hold of a life line and stepped back, break connection.

"This is… I – I can't…" He seemed to have lost the ability to complete a sentence. He heard his father's voice in his head. _Listen to me, Son. She is evil. You do your job, you hear me? Do. Your. Job. _He heard himself telling Sam _Our job is to hunt evil. And he knows that. So he sends us to where he finds the evil he can't get to. Because he knows we'll do our job_. He looked at Brenna, an almost helpless need filling him.

He wanted to kiss her again. To rid himself of this need for her. To plunge into her and ease the ache that had been growing from the moment she'd walked past him carrying those heavy trays. It made him angry. She stood absolutely still, not one foot away, and watched him. He didn't want to feel like this... to feel _anything_ for her, dammit. If his father was right…. if his father was right, he had to destroy her. But…what if? _What if, Dad_?

She seemed to sense that he was about to pull away. "Dean, don't --"

"Brenna, I swear to God, if I don't...If I don't go now... I can't..."

She watched his eyes change from wary, to impassioned, to afraid in the matter of seconds and her heart broke a little for him. She knew that no one had held Dean in a long, long time. She knew he'd been with his share of women, but she also knew that for him that was simply a release. It wasn't real, anymore than the image he project to the world was real. The hunter/protector was real and the little boy was real. She reached her hand out, noticed that it trembled slightly as she did so, and put it against his cheek once more. This time it wasn't to see him. This time…she just wanted to touch him.

"Dean... I won't hurt you. I promise you that," she fisted her free hand and clutched it to her chest. "I know you are afraid --"

At that his head tilted to the right again and his eyes hardened. She didn't let it stop her. She kept her hand in place on his cheek, rubbing the soft skin under his eye.

"--of letting yourself feel something for me. I--"

And here she faltered, breaking eye contact and looking at the open space over his shoulder. "--I need you to believe me. I need you to know that I'm not what you're after."

It was her touch, he realized. No one ever really _touched_ him. Grabbed him, shoved him, moved him out of the way, but never touched just out of their own free will. Her hand was warm against his face, her thumb stroking the soft skin under his eye. This was not the way he allowed women to touch him -- because no matter what the women he bedded thought they were always touching him by permission. This...this was different. This was invasive as well as craved.

He lifted his hands and purposefully put them on her shoulders, pushing her away from him with the finality of a choice rather than an order. The voice of John Winchester – the voice he could always hear above the cacophony of battle – roared in his head that this was wrong. That she was wrong. _But, what if, Dad?_

He dropped his hands and stepped away from her. Part of him was afraid that his Dad was right – that maybe by letting her go he was somehow putting Sam in danger. And protecting Sam was all he had – he knew nothing else…he _was_ nothing else. But as he took another step back, his eyes lingered on hers, then traced down to her lips. Something about her face spoke only of honesty, of a gift of power that she hadn't asked for, and that she fought to control. A gift like Sam's.

Without another word, he turned away from her, and noticed that it was like stepping away from the warmth of a campfire into the dark of the night. He walked out of the garage, and felt something inside of him crack at the sound of her soft sob.

www

He opened the door to their motel room half expecting to see Sam waiting for him. The room was empty, though, and he remembered he'd left Sam pale and shaking sitting across from Declan. He ran a weary hand over his face. How long had he been gone? Any longer and he was sure Sam would come looking for him.

He went to his duffle and dug through it until he found his Dad's journal. Just the site of the worn leather binding made his stomach clench with a familiar fear. The only thing that Dean Winchester truly feared was letting his brother or his father down. Letting them down by not protecting them, by not following through as ordered, by just not doing it right.

"This is one fucked up case, Dad," he said softly to the book. When did things stop being clear? When did the bad guy start to have something in common with his brother? When did evil start having porcelain skin and freckles?

He stared at the book with sightless eyes, thinking about what they had: a banshee killing without a banshee's usual M.O., a descendant of druid queens, a drunk Irishman that their father insisted they protect, two dead people, two crazy people, and a vision about him dying in a mill house.

"A whole lotta nothing," he muttered. "And now I'm talking to myself. C'mon, Dean."

He turned and exited the motel, heading back to Sam, and, hopefully, answers. He had to turn everything else off. He _had_ to. He had to just focus on doing what his Dad – _who never called unless he needed them to hunt something…who sent them into danger, but wouldn't tell them where he was…who never bothered to find out what had happened to them in Lawrence…who didn't know that mom's spirit had saved them, saved Sammy again…who didn't know he'd battled a Reaper…who didn't know that he'd almost lost…who wouldn't fucking LISTEN to what he was trying to tell him about this case_ – told him to do.

With a feral growl he whirled and slammed the journal against the wall of the building. "FUCK YOU, Dad." He shouted to the night.

"And here I thought throwing wrenches was effective," her voice came from behind him with a quiet lilt. He turned quickly and saw her standing about five feet from him, leaning against the outside railing that ran the length of the building, as if she were waiting for him.

With one harsh intake of breath, he dropped the journal on the ground, stepped close to her in one motion, wrapped his arms around her slim waist and pulled her up against him, crushing his mouth down on hers. This time it was she who fisted her hands at the back of his head.

He turned her and in two steps had her back up against the wall of the building. The stars from the brilliant sky reflected in her eyes when he pulled his mouth away to take a breath. He didn't even bother to pause long enough to see if she wanted this. He knew. He just _knew_. Her hands were gripping his neck. He reached up and grasped her wrists, lifting her arms above her head and holding them there. He deepened his kiss, finally sucking in that bottom lip of hers.

He wasn't close enough.

"You're not close enough," she panted. His entire body was pressed up against hers, his leg between hers, holding her up. He reaching up with one hand behind his shoulders and pulled the grey T-shirt off over his head in one motion. She bit her bottom lip in pure pleasure watching this very natural, very male motion. He tossed the shirt on the ground. It covered the journal. He grabbed either side of her face, lifting her mouth to his and devoured.

God his mouth was amazing, she thought. Even when he was cracking wise and wouldn't seem to still his smart comebacks, she'd found it fascinating to watch his mouth. He expressed so much with just a twitch of a corner or by pressing his lips together. And now those lips were pressed on hers.

She pressed her palms to his chest when he pulled away for another breath. For a moment he looked worried, and she didn't know why until her fingers crossed the first scar. His green eyes rested on her face as she trailed her fingers lower on his chest she felt more. Two, three, five... Her eyebrows pulled together and she reached up to trail her fingers down his back. One long one, two smaller ones... His body was covered in scars. She leaned back against the wall again and looked at him. Looked him in the eye. His tongue darted out to wet his suddenly dry lips and he simply watched her for a reaction.

"You are the hunter, Dean. Each one of these scars means that someone you love is still alive," she whispered. _It's the ones that I can't feel that worry me, _she thought.

He lowered his face to hers and brushed a soft kiss across her lips, teasing her mouth up toward him and relishing the feel of her as she arched her neck up to get closer to him. His hands moved to her waist, his fingers brushed the bare skin as he lifted her shirt. He breathed in her gasp of pleasure as his palms found the flat of her stomach, his fingers curling around to her back.

He ignored the hairs on his neck and the sudden ringing in his ears and the constant voice inside that chanted _check on Sam, where is Sam_. He focused only on Brenna, her mouth, her scent, her trembling breath.

And because of that, he never heard the sigh of the banshee's breath. And he never felt her nails stab through his shoulder, wrenching him viciously away from Brenna. He only knew her kiss, her breath, then darkness, and silence.

_The bean-sidhe (woman of the fairy) may be an ancestral spirit appointed to forewarn members of certain ancient Irish families of their time of death. According to tradition, the banshee can only cry for five major Irish families: the __O'Neills__, the __O'Briens__, the __O'Connors__, the __O'Gradys__ and the __Kavanaghs._

_As you will soon be able to tell, I'm going to take the banshee lore a bit outside the box. But, that's the great thing about fiction. _


	3. Part 3: Holding On

**Disclaimer/Spoilers:** See Part 1

_Thanks everyone for your reviews! I now know what the other writers on this site mean by reviews feeding the muse. I appreciate each one, and if I haven't responded to you individually, I will._

_The song Sam hums and Dean quotes is "Hero of the Day" by Metallica. Because I have such a tendency to go long I split this part up into two – they're both still a bit long, though, so I hope they hold your attention. Enjoy!_

Part 3

Sam rubbed his forehead against the beginnings of a headache. Before his visions, he never got headaches. Now… it seemed that he was always fighting them off one way or another. At Declan's liquor-wet sigh, he looked up. Where the hell was Dean? Didn't he say he'd be right back?

"It's my fault you know."

Sam raised a brow and leaned forward. "How so?"

"She's gonna find her and kill her and I'll feel it. I'll feel every moment," he huffed out a mirthless laugh. "And if I'm not crazy already, I will be when she's done."

Sam was growing frustrated by this one-sided conversation. "Who will find who? What --"

"It was my kin that betrayed her. My kin that tortured her. My kin that heard her curse as they killed her. Her curse that no Kavanagh would ever know peace…"

Sam pulled his eyebrows together. It sounded more like a vengeful spirit than a banshee. He needed his Dad's journal. "I thought banshee's only warned of death… you're saying she… causes it?"

Declan looked up at Sam as if just realizing he was still there. "Causes it? Yeah, she causes it."

An almost irrational anger shivered through Sam. He knew Declan knew more than he was saying. And he had a gut feeling it had to do with Brenna. Dean had felt it, too. Back at the mill house he as much said so. Something was off with her – more than just having sight and being the descendant of druids.

Drumming his fingers impatiently against the table he started to question Declan once more. "What about –" then he stopped. He tilted his head to the right and narrowed his eyes in concentration. "Do you hear that?"

Declan's watery eyes flew up to meet his in panic. He pushed the table away from him and tried to stand.

Sam looked at him in surprise. "Hey, man, you ok--?"

The scream sliced through his head and traveled down his spine. His legs shook and as if trapped in one of his visions, he slid unknowing to the floor, his hands clasped on either side of his head. He cried out against the onslaught of noise that brought with it feelings of intense rage, fear, and despair. Then it was gone.

Sam panted, looked up at Declan, shaking hands dropping from his face. "What the hell was that?" he asked, his voice hoarse as if the scream had come from him.

Declan continued to back away, the look of terror in his eyes increasing with each step. "You heard her. You heard the cry of the bean-sidhe."

Still shaking a bit, Sam pushed himself up and stood, facing Declan and the door. "What does that mean?"

"Death is coming, boy."

"For me?"

Declan shook his head. "She doesn't warn those who are to die… she warns those who –"

"Will suffer," Sam breathed out, finishing Declan's thought. _Dean_. Where was he? He'd been gone too long. And it had been some time since the last crash had sounded from Brenna's tantrum in the kitchen. His thoughts began to tumble and trip over themselves in the hustle to be the first in his mind. What if his instinct was right? What if the witch their Dad had sent them for was Brenna? What if this banshee was just to throw them off track?

"Dean," he breathed out and started for the door. Without warning, pain like a white-hot firebrand shot through his right shoulder. He cried out in surprise and grabbed his shoulder, stumbling against the bar for support. He pulled his hand away, fully expecting to see it covered in blood. There was nothing. The pain grew until it seemed to slam into him like waves. He blinked hard, trying to banish the black spots that threatened to overtake his vision.

"What the –" his legs wouldn't hold him as another wave hit him, and he sank to his knees, holding his shoulder in a futile effort to keep the pain at bay. He blinked up at Declan, watching as the old man continued to back away from him. Sam opened his mouth to stop him, to ask him what was going on, to curse at him, anything, but his verbal onslaught was halted when the front door of the bar banged open behind Declan and Brenna swept into the room, eyes wide, shirt covered in blood.

"Sam!" she cried out, her voice shaking. "Sam you have to –" she stopped when she finally saw him, on his knees next to the bar, bent slightly at the waist and holding his right shoulder, a look of utter confusion clouding his dark brown eyes.

Declan turned at the sound of her voice, and exclaimed in distress at the sight of the blood covering his granddaughter.

Brenna didn't even pause to comfort him as she swept past him heading toward Sam. "It's not mine. It's Dean's," she said.

That pulled Sam's head up fast, and his eyes cleared, then hardened. "Dean's?"

Brenna literally skidded to a halt just out of his reach. "I didn't hurt him, Sam."

"Where is he?" Sam's voice was a low growl. Brenna almost trembled. He looked more dangerous than Dean had when he'd confronted her in the garage. Without meaning to, she saw straight through to the truth of him. His entire focus was on his brother. His heartbeat practically chanted Dean's name. Brenna knew with complete certainty that if she had hurt his brother, she would be dead. If she'd hurt his brother, Sam Winchester was not about to ponder the possibility of her guilt of innocence. If he believed…

"Sam," her voice was low, but steady. "Look at me. Look at my eyes." Sam's brown eyes lifted to meet hers and she saw them widen with surprise as she allowed her sight to take over.

"I did not hurt your brother. I am not evil, okay? Your father is wrong," Sam's eyes took her in, and she watched as he seemed to accept, then doubt the truth of what she said. She realized that Sam didn't know about John's phone call with Dean.

A pain filled expression lanced across Sam's face, and he ground out through clenched teeth, "What do you know about my… my Dad?" he panted.

Brenna shook her head. "Just that he thinks I'm what you boys are after."

Declan exclaimed from behind her. "Why the hell would he think that?"

Brenna jerked her head over her should to glare at him, "Maybe because you let him. You are the one that set him on the path of a witch, old man. If you'd just been honest with him – "

"I was trying to protect you, girl. We needed help, but if Winchester knew about you – "

"You don't know what he would have done," she bit out, cutting him off. "You didn't give him the chance."

Sam watched this exchange with detachment. The pain in his shoulder had started to fade slightly and he found that he could take a breath. Then, as though invisible claws slashed at him through the air, his right side felt like it caught fire. He cried out, bent forward, and closed his eyes against the phantom pain. He could have sworn that claws, sharp and deadly, had just raked across his side.

Dimly he heard Brenna call his name. He focused all of his energy into shoving the pain away. He tried to think of what he'd done all the times he'd been hurt before, but none had hurt like this. He tried to think of what Dean did when hurt. Dean had been in pretty bad shape before – several times in fact, Sam realized. Some of those times, when they were kids, Sam had cried to see the pain his brother was in, but Dean never had. His eyes had shown his pain, his jaw had trembled, and he'd been quiet – very, very quiet – but he'd never cried. Sam focused on how Dean would handle his pain and was able to lift his head.

That's when he realized what he should have known from the start. His eyes met Brenna's.

"Dean," he breathed. This pain may not be real for him. It may not be leaving marks on his body. But it was real. "Oh, God," he gasped out, shoving himself to his feet. "This is Dean's pain…"

Brenna's chin trembled a moment as she nodded. "She took him, Sam."

"Tell me," he said, his voice shaking as he tried to control the pain.

"We were, uh," Brenna paused, her eyes flitting away from Sam and then back to him again. She saw mild surprise register there, but not shock. She wasn't sure what that meant, so she ignored it. "We were outside of your motel room. He'd gone inside for…some book or something. I never saw her – never heard her even." Brenna swallowed and looked past Sam's shoulder to the darkness of the bar. "One second he was with me, and the next… I felt this warm…substance on me, opened my eyes and saw this…figure…moving away with Dean in her arms."

Sam's eyes shifted to Brenna's gory shirt. Dean's blood he realized, his stomach clenching with his own brand of pain. He should have gone with him…if he'd gone with him to get the journal… "Where's the journal?"

Brenna blinked at him in confusion. "The what?"

"The book Dean went to get. Where is it?"

"Outside of your room, I guess. I didn't… I just…I had to get to you."

Sam nodded once and started to move away from the bar. The pain in his side made him stumble a bit, and Brenna reached out for him. Just as she touched him, the pain was gone. Sam almost swayed with the relief. He straightened and swallowed, looking down at her hand.

"What did you do?"

She stepped away from him and for a moment he panicked. But the pain didn't return with the release of her hand. "What do you mean?"

Sam pulled his eyebrows together. "When you touched me, it stopped hurting."

Brenna shook her head. "I didn't do anything."

Declan spoke up suddenly. "You don't hurt anymore, boy? You can't feel him?"

Brenna and Sam both jumped. They had forgotten he was there. Sam shook his head. A sudden, horrible thought struck him.

Brenna knew what he thought, felt his sudden fear. "No, Sam. You would have felt him die."

Sam's voice hardened. "Dean is not going to die."

"We'll get him back, Sam."

Sam started to walk past Brenna. "Why did she take him, anyway? I thought she was going after those connected to the Kavanaghs."

Brenna had turned to follow him, then stopped suddenly as though she had walked into a brick wall. "Me."

Sam looked at her askance. "What?"

She lifted tragic eyes to his. "She was after me."

Sam tilted his head. "How do you know?"

"I just… I just do. She got him because… he was open. She, I don't know, focused on his pain of betrayal…"

At that Sam turned to face her full on. "Pain of betrayal? What are you talking about?"

"Sam, if I knew more I would tell you. I swear. But…all I know is that when Dean held me, I – I could see this wound inside of him. Something that had scarred over and been ripped open several times. And it was…it was like it was bleeding."

Sam's stomach clenched again. The banshee had focused on Dean because he'd been in pain. And Sam had no idea. "I didn't know."

"Sam, I don't think he really did either. He doesn't… he doesn't see himself."

"What do you mean?"

Brenna sighed, trying to explain this to the one person who should know Dean best, who loved Dean the most. She knew that was true even without the banshee's curse. "I look at you, I see you. I see who you are and who you think you are and who you want to be."

Sam said nothing. He knew how difficult it was to explain visions to someone who didn't see what he did. He knew if she could have been clearer she would have. He waited the moment she needed to pick her next words. She pressed her lips together, pushing them out in thought. It was such a _Dean_ expression that Sam's breath caught in his throat.

"I look at Dean and I see...you. I see John. I see…fire, if that makes sense. But I don't see Dean. It's like…to Dean…he doesn't exist without you."

She lifted her eyes to meet his, praying he'd just simply believe her and not question. "I don't think he knew how much pain he was in."

"We have to get him out of there."

Declan cleared his throat. "How do you know he isn't dead?"

Sam whirled on him. "What?"

Declan took a step back. "How do you know you didn't feel it already?"

Sam narrowed his eyes and took a threatening step forward. "Dean is not dead. I. Am. Getting. Him. Back."

"Then why aren't you feeling it, boy? Why aren't you going crazy like all the rest of them?"

Sam opened his mouth, then closed it again. In truth, he had no idea.

"It's Dean," Brenna breathed, a strangled sound.

Sam turned to grasp her arms. "What? What is it? Do you see something?"

She shook her head helplessly and looked up at Sam. "He's blocking it."

Sam pulled back, shocked. "What? How?"

Brenna lifted a shoulder. "He's protecting you."

www

Dean Winchester was no stranger to pain. He'd broken his first bone when he was nine. Had 27 stitches in his back when he was 12. Had a dozen concussions in his lifetime. He'd been shot, stabbed, slashed, and thrown against walls more times than he wanted to count. When he opened his eyes in the dark, damp room, his wrists tied together and his arms above his head, stretched to the point he felt his shoulders straining from the effort, he was instantly reminded of each painful event.

When the banshee suddenly appeared in front of him, her terrible face expressionless, her mouth open in a silent scream, he had only an instant to brace himself. When her nails raked through the skin stretched taunt over his right side, he nearly bit through his lip to keep from crying out. Blackness swiftly, mercifully swamped him.

When he opened his eyes again, the room was still dark and damp, his shoulder was still on fire and his arms stretched above his head, but now there was a burning pain in his side. He had no idea how long he'd been out, but the banshee was gone. He tried to take a deep, calming breath but found that with his arms above his head he could do no better than pant. Well, panting helped. _God _this hurt. No wonder the mayor's wife and the sheriff had gone crazy if their loved ones were –

"Oh, God, Sam," Dean suddenly breathed. His pain was meant to drive Sam insane. Instantly, he pictured a box. A large box made of...lead. Even Superman couldn't see through lead, right? He pictured a lock on that lead box. He closed his eyes and with every ounce of strength he could muster he shoved his pain into that lead box, closed the lid, and clicked the lock. He kept his mind on that locked box.

"You're not gonna get him, you bitch," he whispered to the darkness, his trembling voice betraying him. Nothing stirred. There wasn't even a drip of water. It was as if she'd tied him up in his own grave. At that thought, Dean huffed out a humorless laugh.

"Hell," he whispered. "She probably did."

Where was he? How had she gotten him here? The last thing he remembered was Brenna…God had she gotten Brenna, too? Could she be down here? Something told Dean that no, no one was down here. He was alone. Completely, utterly alone. And though he would never admit it to himself or anyone else, Dean Winchester did not do alone well.

"C'mon, Sammy," he whispered, the sound of his own voice deadened against the moss-covered stone walls. "If anyone can find me, you can."

His side stabbed at him again, and he could feel his jeans start to soak in the blood that ran down his side. "You might want to hustle, little brother…"

www

"Kinda in a hurry, here, Brenna." Sam grumbled as he made his way back to the motel room. "I think we've hashed over the hows and whys enough for one night."

Brenna had to practically jog to keep up with him. "Oh really? You know where Dean is? You know how you're going to get him out? You know how to kill the banshee?"

Sam paused his stride a moment, then picked it right back up. "No, no, and no."

"So, don't you think – "

He reached the journal and Dean's gray T-shirt. He bent and picked them both up, crumpling the shirt in his hand. His mind flashed to the previous night, watching Dean walk away from him clad only in his jeans as he tried to find a place to put John's voicemail inside that regimented mind of his. Sam looked up at Brenna, holding the shirt like an accusation.

Brenna pouted. "I didn't take it off of him."

Sam rolled his eyes and turned from her to open the door to the motel room.

"Well I didn't," she grumbled and followed him into the room.

Sam had already tossed an open duffle on the empty bed and was filling his pockets with shotgun shells, a gauze roll and medical tape, and a flashlight. The other bed, she noticed, was practically covered with an impressive array of weaponry. She lifted an eyebrow.

Sam seemed to feel her look. "Dean cleans our guns when he's bored."

"Give me one."

"What? No!" Sam said, cocking Dean's silver .45 and putting it in the back of his waistband. "No way you're coming."

"I can help you find him, Sam."

"Fine, then you tell me where to go."

"I'm coming with you, Sam. It's our fault he's been taken, I need to help you fix this."

Sam stared at Brenna. Brenna stared back. It was clear she was prepared to out-stubborn him. He glanced at the journal, bent over and picked it up.

"Sam," she said in a warning tone.

"Hang on." He flipped through the pages of the book. He reached the end, then went through it backwards. It didn't take him long to see that there was no mention of banshee's in the journal. "I don't get it," he said, tossing the journal back on the bed. "I can't believe he's never fought them before…"

Brenna swallowed. "Look under witches."

Sam lifted a brow. "Not a bad idea." He picked the journal up again and looked for witches. The section was one of the thicker areas of information. According to his Dad, banshees were once women who had in life been cursed to feel the coming of death and so after they died, they screamed a warning of death. Some legends said that only certain Celtic clans heard the warning of the banshee, others said anyone could hear her before death visited them or someone they loved.

"Declan said she was betrayed…" Sam murmured.

Brenna shook her head. "Do you have to know that to fight her?"

Sam sighed. "Maybe. Right now I don't care about that. I just want to get my brother back."

"But what about – "

"_Listen_," Sam practically growled. "Dean is the only thing that matters. Everything else stops until I get him back."

"Fine. About that gun."

Sam opened his mouth to fire off a retort when a flash-fire of pain, panic, and fear hit him. He gasped and doubled over, his hands gripping the edge of the bed from an effort to not collapse. "Holy shit," he breathed. The pain rippled across his ribs and settled, hot, near his heart.

"Oh, God, Dean…" he gasped out. The pain was suddenly everywhere, the fear a coppery taste in his mouth. Then as suddenly as it hit him, it was gone. Sam felt lightheaded from the release. And for a strange moment, he thought he heard the sound of a key in a lock.

Brenna had rushed over to him. "What? What is it?"

"He's scared. God, I – I never… he's never been scared before."

Brenna's eyes softened as she looked at Sam. "Yes he has, Sam."

"She's hurting him."

"Do you – can you tell where?"

Sam licked his lips. "Everywhere."

"Then let's not waste time arguing about me staying or going."

Sam straightened up. "I can't protect you and find him. Do you even know how to use a gun?"

Brenna lifted an eyebrow and pressed her lips together. She picked up the nearest handgun, clicked the safety off and on, checked the chamber, ejected the magazine and shoved it back in, then dropped it back on the bed.

"I think I have the general idea."

Sam wasn't deterred. "It's not –"

"Plus," she interrupted, reaching into her jeans pocket and pulling out a small burlap bag, "I have this." She loosened the strings at the top and revealed the contents to Sam.

Sam lifted an eyebrow. "We're saved. Brenna has a bag of dust."

She gave him a look, reached into the bag and pulled out a small pinch of "dust" and tossed it on the floor at his feet. It flashed in a shower of fire and sparks. Sam yelped and jumped back. He looked up at her in surprise.

Clearing his throat, he said, "You can bring the Glock."

"Glad you see it my way."

"But I swear to God, if you in any way get prevent me from getting my brother back, I _will_ ignore the white side of your magic. You get me?"

Brenna had to take a breath as she looked at Sam. For a moment, hazel-green eyes had reflected in what were normally chocolate brown. Dean's essence had flashed through his brother truer than anything she'd ever experienced.

"I get you."

"Good. Let's go."

They hurried to the Impala, and Brenna let out a whistle as she slid into the seat.

"What?"

"Dean must have hated to see those dead cars in the garage," she muttered, running her hand appreciatively over the leather seats. "This baby's a beauty."

Sam shook his head. "I can't believe you just called her baby."

"Why?"

He didn't get a chance to answer her. As he turned the key in the ignition, the Impala's familiar rumble echoing off the motel walls, he heard her gasp. He looked over and saw that her eyes had gone wide and…predatory. Then she suddenly jerked.

"What? What is it? Do you see him?"

"Yes," she whispered, a strangled sob.

"Is he okay?"

"No," she shook her head, eyes closed. "But he's fighting her. And…"

"And what?"

"And swearing…a lot."

Sam actually breathed a sigh of relief. "Where?"

Brenna opened her eyes and looked at Sam. He involuntarily jerked back at the sight of her eyes. She looked like a small, terrible, bird of prey. "It's, uh… I don't know… dark, cold…" She looked out the front windshield. "Stone? I think I saw wet stone walls."

"I know where he is."

Unbidden, flashes from Sam's vision danced across his eyes. The mill house. He pressed the accelerator and the Impala responded. Sam gripped the wheel, thinking through the plan to get into the mill house and get Dean out. Dean was the one with the plans. He automatically knew exactly what they were going to do when they entered a hunt. At least, it seemed that way to Sam. Dean never hesitated in a moment of crisis. He was fluid in his efforts, and was always, it seemed, one step ahead of Sam. The only time Sam ever saw Dean still was in the presence of their Dad. Something about John seemed to give Dean pause.

He turned to tell Brenna how it was going to go down, when a hot spike stabbed into his gut. For a moment he couldn't see, then he cried out, releasing the wheel and grabbing for his middle. Some part of his mind knew that it wouldn't help the pain, but he did it anyway.

"Shit! Sam," Brenna cried out, lunging for the wheel of the Impala. The car was swerving across the road and toward a stone wall. "Put your foot on the brake! SAM!"

Sam jerked at the sound of his name. He opened his eyes and dragged in a breath.

"Put your foot on the brake, Sam, NOW."

Sam complied and the car screeched to a halt mere feet from the stone wall. Sam held his hand to his right side trying to keep the pain under control. He suddenly registered how close he'd come to smearing not only himself and Brenna, but Dean's baby against the stone wall. He shuddered.

"Thanks," he whispered through shallow breaths. "Dean would've killed me if I hurt his car."

Brenna stared at him. "His _car_?!"

The pain was abating, slower this time than the other times. Sam felt the fire ease up, then the throbbing stopped, and suddenly he felt nothing. "Don't ask."

"You okay?"

"_I_ am," Sam said, backing the car away from the edge of the road and straightening it up. He shoved it into drive and flattened the gas peddle. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Brenna's head whip back and then bounce forward. To her credit, she said nothing, but held on to the door a bit tighter. "_He's_ not. I could tell it was harder for him to… do whatever he's doing this time."

"Could you tell what –"

"Not really, but… I think she stabbed him with something. And he's starting to panic. I can feel that now."

"You can feel his panic, but not his pain?"

Sam sighed, frustrated. "Hey, I'm new to this."

"No, I'm not doubting you…I'm just thinking…what if he could feel you, too?"

Sam looked at her. "Feel me?"

Brenna shrugged.

Sam saw the yellow crime scene tape reflect off of the Impala's headlights. They were getting close to the mill house. It was worth a shot. How could he calm Dean – Dean who met every evil son of a bitch they'd fought and killed head-on. Dean who was afraid of nothing. Nothing except…

In a burst of inspiration, he began to hum Metallica's "Hero of the Day".

www

"Stay out here, guard the car."

"Guard the car?"

"Are you seriously doing this with me now? Guard the car, Brenna."

"Sam, I can –"

"NO. Stay. Here."

He'd whipped around to face her, his eyes dark and dangerous. "Keep the gun out in case she makes it out before we do. But do NOT come in. You got me?"

Brenna pressed her lips together. "Fine. Take this." She pressed the burlap bag into his hands. "If you use it all at once, do it on the run."

"Got it."

Sam shoved the bag into the pocket of his hoodie, gripped the sawed-off and checked the .45 in his back waist-band. After a brief thought, he went to the trunk, opened it, and grabbed a package.

"Rock salt?"

"Yep."

"That gonna do anything against a banshee?"

"Maybe, maybe not," Sam said, then slammed the trunk closed. "But it'll hurt like hell." His memory flashed briefly to Dean being propelled through a wall after taking a blast of rock salt to the chest. He'd been pretty messed up after that. If the banshee couldn't be hurt by bullets, he was willing to stall her with rock salt.

"Stay – "

"With the car. I got it. Just bring him back," she said.

Sam hefted the shotgun and crept toward the back of the mill house, entering through the door he and Dean had used previously. The darkness was consuming. It was as though the longer he looked in one area, the darker it became. Black eating up black. He lifted the sawed-off with his right, and under it, he held a small flashlight.

Moving slowly forward, he strained his ears for any sign of Dean. His heart pounded as his light hit the moss-covered empty walls, dirty stone floor, empty corners in empty rooms. The silence was deafening. He couldn't hear the wind or the insects outside. His heart sounded loud in his ears. He found himself moving down a corridor, and suddenly the pounding in his head matched the one in his ears.

_Not now_, he silently pleaded. He couldn't have a vision now. They always left him so exposed. He had never had one without Dean around. He tried to take deep breaths to ward it off, but the pounding in his head increased. He leaned against the wall, keeping the gun pointed out, and turned off the flashlight. The darkness wrapped around him as he breathed deep, using whatever mental reserves he had to block the vision.

Then he heard it. The sweetest sound in the world. His brother's voice.

"Oh, you BITCH!"

It was coming from beneath him he realized. She had him in a basement of some sort. He flicked on the flashlight and scanned the walls around him.

"Door, door, door," he muttered aloud – needing to hear something besides his heartbeat.

"I'm gonna kill you so bad," Dean bellowed from beneath him. "I know what you are. I know what you're doing to him. You leave him alone, you hear me? YOU HEAR ME?"

Sam's gut clenched at the tremor in Dean's voice. His eyes burned at the words his brother had screamed. He knew – this time he _knew_ – how much pain Dean was in. He knew his brother was going through hell – going through hell because he'd been in pain in the first place -- and he was thinking about Sam. His concern was focused outward, like usual. He hurried forward scanning the empty walls.

"Fuck!" he cried out in frustration. Dean's voice had been so close. How had she – he tripped over the trapdoor handle and nearly dropped the sawed-off. "Oh."

He turned off the flashlight so as not to warn of his arrival, his eyes instinctively opening wide to try to allow any light in, but it was as if he'd been rendered completely blind. He felt along the floor for a second, then his long fingers wrapped around the handle. He lifted the door hoping for stairs. It was a ladder. Swell. He leaned the door all the way open against the opposite floor and as silently as he could, he crept down the ladder.

He held his breath turning a slow 360 to try to see his brother. The room he entered was equally as dark, and somehow creepier because he was below the ground. And, he had to admit, because he didn't know where the banshee was. Breathing deep to calm his racing pulse, he chanted the words to the song he'd been humming earlier in his head. The steady cadence of those words eased him out of his panic. _Huh_. _What do you know about that_, he thought.

He saw as he completed his turn a room to his right with a faint, eerie light coming from beneath what looked like a door. He gripped the sawed-off and moved forward purposefully. Easing the door open he entered with the gun first. She was there. She was standing in the room, her back to Sam. The light was coming from her. She looked solid, however. Like an old woman wrapped in rags. Not like a spirit.

Sam couldn't see his brother, but he knew he was there. He heard his ragged breathing. Bracing himself against the doorframe, he eased the dual hammers back, lifting it to aim at her back. He didn't even see her move. One moment she was standing with her back to him, the next she was standing directly in front of him, her terrible face inches from his. Her face was corpse blue, her mouth open as though screaming, but no sound emerged. Her eyes were empty sockets, and her skin was stretched taunt across her cheeks.

"Sam," his name came out of his brother's mouth like a curse and a prayer.

The banshee reached for him and Sam reacted. He brought the gun up and fired point blank into her chest. The scream echoed off of the walls of the basement and Sam dropped the gun, his knees giving way and his hands clapping over his ears. The banshee grabbed him by his hair and flung him aside. He hit a wall, hard, and slid down to the dirty floor.

"Sam, no!" Dean cried out. "C'mere, you freaky bitch. We aren't done here, you and me."

Dean's voice was strained, as if he couldn't get enough air. He was bellowing through clenched teeth, and through his now-blurry vision, and by the eerie light of the banshee, Sam could suddenly see him. Sam blinked hard, shaking the cobwebs from his head. Dean was shirtless, the top of his jeans darkened with the blood that seemed to run freely from numerous wounds on his chest. His arms were stretched taunt above his head, and his face was deathly pale. But his eyes… Sam could see the fire in his eyes even in this unnatural light. His gaze was pinned to the banshee, who at the moment was focusing on Sam with a disturbing intensity.

"C'mon!" Dean yelled again. The banshee momentarily pulled her attention from Sam. Sam used that moment to begin a slow crawl back to the gun.

"You w-want betrayal?" Dean's voice trembled. Sam stopped crawling and looked up at his brother. For one brief moment, their eyes met, and Sam's heart clenched. He suddenly knew what Brenna meant when she said she didn't see Dean reflect back at her out of his eyes. Sam saw only a desperate love shining there. Others might see only the fire, the fight, the determination, the vengeance. But to Sam, all of those reflected his brother's love.

"H-how about 22 years of loyalty and obedience discarded in one night? How about that, huh?"

The banshee turned again to Dean and Sam watch his brother brace himself for whatever she would next do to him. He planned on making sure she didn't get a chance. He rolled once, picking up the gun as he did so, and ducked out of the room.

"Rock salt, rock salt," he chanted. Bullets had made her scream. Maybe the salt would have more of an effect. The gun thus loaded, he swung around the door, aimed, making sure he wouldn't hit his brother, and fired. This time he didn't drop the gun when she screamed; he simply squinted his eyes shut against the pain, curling in on himself until it was over.

When the scream stopped, Sam opened his eyes to darkness. Her eerie dead light was gone. The only sound in the room was the brother's harsh breathing.

"She's not gone, Sam," Dean rasped out.

"I know. I have to get you out of here," Sam pushed himself to his feet. "We'll come back for her…"

He felt along the wall until he touched Dean's chest. It was wet – and Sam didn't have to see his hand to know that it was blood.

"Dude, flashlight?"

"Right," Sam twisted the flashlight on, shining it up on Dean's bound wrists. They were red, raw from holding his weight. And the knots were impossible. "I'm going to have to cut you down."

Dean's silence was his answer. He dug his pocket knife out and put the flashlight in his mouth. Holding the light steady with his teeth, he grabbed Dean's hands with his left to steady the rope, and sawed through the rope with his right. Dean dropped so suddenly, Sam almost didn't catch him before he hit the ground. His left arm darted quickly across Dean's bloody chest and he bore his brother's weight to the ground. The flashlight fell from his mouth and he dropped the pocket knife.

"Easy, easy," he said as Dean groaned. "I got you…"

"It's about time you got here, Sammy," Dean whispered.

Sam lay Dean back against the stone floor and ran his hands down his brother's arms to find his bound wrists, then cut the remaining ropes. "Think I wouldn't come for you?"

He could feel Dean begin to tremble under his hands. He searched frantically for the flashlight.

"I knew you would come," Dean said, his voice a painful rasp. "I heard you."

Sam grimaced. "So much for my stealthy approach."

"No, Sam. I _heard_ you," Dean repeated, "_And someone there is sighing, keepers of the flames, do ya feel your name_…"

Sam's grin was instantaneous. "You said that Metallica calms you down, right?"

"That's right, Dude. Now, get me up. She won't be gone long."

Sam breathed a sigh of relief when his fingers closed around the flashlight. He twisted it on and turned it on his brother. He had to bit his lip to keep from gasping. If Dean's face looked pale in the banshee's light, it looked nearly translucent now. His eyes were closed, his long lashes shadowing his cheekbones. His jaw muscle jumped in a rhythmic cadence. Sam ran the flashlight down his chest, focusing on his right side where he had felt the most phantom pain. There were two holes in Dean's shoulder, three wide slashes across his ribs, and the stab wound he'd felt in the car on his lower right side. And all were bleeding.

"Wait, Dean, I need to stop some of this bleeding," he tried to keep his voice steady.

"She's gonna be back, Sam. We gotta go. Now." Dean's voice edged on panicked.

"Listen to me. If I don't stop some of this bleeding, we won't be going far."

Dean took a shallow breath and nodded. "Go for it."

Sam set the flashlight down next to him but didn't turn it off. The darkness was too consuming – it felt like they were the last people on earth. The light angled up from one of the stones and shone on Dean's face, throwing his profile's shadow onto the wall. Sam reached into the pocket of his hoodie and drew out the gauze roll and white medical tape he'd grabbed from the first aid kit before leaving the motel room.

"You're supposed to keep this red stuff on the inside, you know?"

"That's what I've heard. She had other ideas," Dean's voice was a whisper of breath.

Sam looked at his brother's face. It was pale, but his hooded eyes were pinned to Sam's face.

"This might sting a little," he said as he prepared to press the gauze against the puncture wound. "You ready?"

"Let's go."

Sam leaned forward, pressing a large portion of gauze against his brother's side.

"JESUS CHRIST!" Dean bellowed.

"Sorry," Sam said in a small voice, pressing hard to try to stop the flow of blood.

"Sonuvabitch, stop, Sam… I can't… sonuvaBITCH!"

And suddenly the wave of pain slammed into Sam, stealing his breath and bringing spots before his eyes. He tried to take a breath, but his lungs wouldn't cooperate. His hands began to shake and he lost his grip on the bandage, falling weakly away from Dean. As soon has his hands moved away from their pressure, the pain Sam felt lessened and he could see. There was still a dull ache throughout his body, but the acute, fire-brand of pain was gone.

"Holy shit," he breathed, blinking down at Dean.

"Sorry, man," Dean gasped out, blinking hard in an effort to stay conscious. "I couldn't…keep…" He had to stay awake. If he let the gray wall that was closing in on him win, he would hurt Sammy. The only way to keep the box closed and locked was to stay awake.

Sam realized that he'd pushed Dean past his wall of control with his efforts. "God, Dean…"

He didn't want to make Dean weaker by keeping up the shield from the pain, but he also knew that there was no hope of getting them both out of there if he wasn't protected from it.

"I'll – uh… I'll just wrap it, okay?"

"'Kay."

He wrapped the gauze around Dean's middle, tying it on his left side. He watched in concern as the section of "bandage" over the puncture wound turn and instant bright red.

He heard the breath an instant before the eerie light entered the room. He grabbed the sawed-off, swung it around, and realized too late that it wasn't reloaded. The banshee flew toward him and he swung the gun like a bat. It hit her square in the head and she flew against the wall. Sam had no time to congratulate himself as she bounced off said wall and lunged at him again. He swung again. This time, though, she landed next to Dean. Dean had used his brother's struggle to grab the pocket knife from the floor next to him. He used his left arm and stabbed it in her neck.

Both brothers shook as her scream echoed off the walls, then she was gone. Sam, breathing hard, crawled over to Dean.

"C'mon, man." He put the flashlight in his jeans pocket, lit side facing up. It only helped illuminate the room slightly better than the banshee this way, but there was no way he could hold it and get Dean out of there at the same time.

Sam stood and bent to help Dean. He was able to get his brother into a sitting position, and then his heart dropped when he heard Dean's gasp of pain. "S-sam," Dean started, weakly pushing at Sam's hands.

"If you even think about telling me to leave you here, I will beat the holy hell out of you."

"A banshee beat you to it, Dude." Sam crouched down in front of his brother so that the light shone between their faces. Dean's eyes blinked slowly and the sweat from his forehead ran down to make tee-pees out of his long lashes. His head lolled for a moment, and Sam felt the white-hot twinge of pain in his side as Dean started to lose his battle for consciousness.

"Get up, Dean. Now." Sam ordered. He knew that Dean would kill himself to obey his father. He pulled every once of John Winchester from his genes as he could and gripped his brother's shoulders. "Do you hear me? GET UP. NOW."

Dean blinked again, focusing on Sam. He reached out a shaky hand and slapped it hard against Sam's face. "Sam?"

"Yeah, it's me. Now you gotta help me, man. You have to get up."

Dean nodded once, and moved his hand from Sam's cheek to grip the material of his brother's shirt. Sam rocked back on his heels, balancing Dean's weight. His brother was smaller than him, but he was all muscle, and solidly built. The blood on his chest made it hard for Sam to get a good grip.

When Dean was standing -- leaning heavily on Sam, but standing – Sam started to move forward.

"Sam," Dean's slur stopped him.

"Yeah."

"Gimme a gun."

"The hell would I do that for? You can't even hold onto it."

Dean rocked his head back so that he could look up at Sam. "Give. Me. A. Gun."

Sam pulled in a lungful of air, then reached into his back waistband for Dean's .45. He clicked the safety off, then put it into Dean's right hand. He caught it before it clattered to the floor from Dean's limp fingers.

"See?"

"Tape it in there."

"Whatever, Dean. I'm not taping a gun to your hand."

"Sam!" This time the word was a harshly barked command. "Tape the fucking gun to my hand."

Sam regarded his brother for a moment. He was weaving on his feet and leaning heavily on Sam, but he was still in control. Sam wasn't feeling any pain from Dean. He was still his superhero brother.

"Fine."

He put the gun in Dean's hand, closed his brother's fingers around the grip and the trigger, and then quickly wrapped the medical tape around his hand to keep it in place. The banshee's wail caught him off guard and Dean nearly fell when Sam let go of him to grip his head. Sam caught him just in time and moved forward out of the room.

"She's coming, Sam."

"I know."

"We have to get out of here."

"I KNOW."

Sam continued to pull Dean behind him as he moved as quickly as his wounded brother would allow. They reached the ladder and Sam growled in frustration. "Dean."

"What."

"There's a ladder."

"Shit."

"Can you climb it?"

"Gonna have to, aren't I?"

"I could carry you."

"Like hell."

"Just up the ladder, Dean."

"Sam, you can carry me when I won't know about it. And not before."

Sam sighed and moved Dean in front of him. Dean used his free left hand to grasp the rungs, his right arm dangling free with the gun taped to his hand. Sam climbed directly behind him, completely ignoring Dean's standard "Dude, personal space" comment. There was no way Dean was getting up that ladder without help. He shoved his brother through the opening and climbed out immediately after.

He started to lean over and help Dean to his feet when he heard the banshee's wail again. He paused and reloaded the sawed-off with rock salt.

"Sam," Dean's voice was a savage reminder of the pain he was in. "Sammy, we gotta go."

"Here," Sam leaned over and grasped Dean's arms, pulling his brother to his feet. He slung Dean's left arm across his shoulders, and hooked his fingers in the belt loops on his right side. "Hang onto me." He began to move as fast as the faded light from his awkwardly placed flashlight would let them. The wail grew to a fevered pitch.

Then, Sam glanced back and saw her. She was moving toward them with impossible speed – not seeming to walk or float, just moving toward them. For the first time since he'd started out to bring Dean back, he was afraid they wouldn't make it out of there.

As the distance between the boys and the banshee decreased, Dean lifted his wounded arm and fired off nine rounds into the figure. She bucked with each shot and slowed, but she didn't stop. Sam tucked the sawed-off under his arm and reached into his pocket for Brenna's burlap bag.

"Close your eyes, man," he said to Dean, then turned them both and threw the bag down the hall toward the banshee. The bag exploded in a brilliant white light just as Sam turned them back to the door.

"The hell?" Dean slurred.

"Brenna."

Dean seemed to accept that as an explanation. Either that or he was too tired to question further. When they reached the outer door of the mill house, Sam breathed a sigh of relief and slowed down.

"Keep goin', man," Dean panted. "She's not bound to the house."

_Of course_, Sam berated himself. He shifted his grip on his brother and stretched his long legs out trying to get them out of there quicker. Dean fired six more rounds behind him before clicking on an empty chamber.

"Where's the car?"

"Little bit further. Brenna's guarding it."

"Wait – what?"

"Don't ask."

The banshee screamed again, and Sam looked back. Seeing her outside of the house felt wrong – without thinking he raised the sawed-off and fired both barrels. The banshee fell back, and Sam started to move faster towards the Impala.

He felt Dean sag against him.

"Hey," Sam cried out, looking down at Dean. He slowed his escape and tightened his grip. "Hey, hey, hey, don't give up on me, man." He gave Dean a shake. "We're getting out of here."

Dean opened his eyes with considerable effort and drew himself up as best he could. He hated that he had to lean so heavily on Sam, but it was that, or open the box. He took a breath and then a step forward. Sam moved with him.

"The cars just past that fence line," Sam said, wishing he'd parked closer. Wishing he'd had Brenna bring it to them. He caught sight of the gun still taped to Dean's wounded hand, weighing it down. He reached across him for it.

"Don't."

"It's okay, man, I'll just…"

"Don't Sam. Don't touch it."

Sam looked at his brother's face. It had grown paler in the last couple minutes since they left the room he'd been tied up in. His eyes were heavy-lidded and sweat was running down the sides of his face. He was pressing his lips together in an obvious effort to contain his pain. Sam had seen this expression before. When he was younger, before John had not only let, but _insisted_ he come on each hunt, he'd sit back in the hotel, in the dark, awaiting the return of his family. It was a rare occasion when both his father and his brother returned unharmed. More often than not, though, Dean would keep his wounds secret, that same look of determination and pain in his heavy-lidded green eyes, and his lips pressed tightly together until he was sure his brother was okay and his Dad was taken care of. Then he would either hide in the bathroom to clean the wounds himself, or he would quietly ask Sam for help.

"You don't have to do this, Dean."

"Yeah I do."

Dean stumbled again, and groaned.

"Hey, hey," Sam whispered, turning to look at Dean. His brother's head hung low, and nearly rested against Sam's chest. He couldn't see if his eyes were open, but he knew Dean was still conscious – he was moving his feet and Sam wasn't in pain. "You still with me, man?"

"Sammy…"

Sam stopped moving, and shifted Dean against him. "We're almost there, Dean. You can make it."

"Sammy… I… I can't keep the lid closed…"

Sam was about to ask what he was talking about when Dean's knees buckled and he sagged against him, Sam catching the full weight of his brother the instant before the blinding pain hit him. It was sharp, hot. His body felt like it was on fire and freezing cold at the same time. He felt waves rolling over him, then slowly focusing until the fire was focused on his right side.

"Shit," he breathed, collapsing to the ground in a heap, Dean unconscious in his arms. Sam tried to breathe through the pain in his side but found himself panting. Shallow breaths seemed to be the only thing he was capable of. He momentarily marveled at Dean's stoicism, then he grew angry.

"You stupid bastard," he panted, putting his hand on Dean's hot forehead and pulling his brother's head back against his shoulder. "Why didn't you just tell me?"

He looked down at Dean's wounded side. The gauze he'd wrapped there was soaked in red. No wonder Dean had finally passed out. Sam ran a hand over his face. He had to figure out how to get them both to the car.

He closed his eyes and concentrated on the pain in his middle. He had to convince his body that it wasn't real. He wasn't bleeding, he wasn't cut. He had to because he knew it was the only way he'd be able to stand. And standing was only the first step in getting his brother back to the car. He took one deep breath. Then another. He shifted Dean's limp form forward, and pushed himself to his feet. There, that wasn't so bad, was it?

"Ahhhh!" he cried out in pain and frustration. He cursed every supernatural enemy they'd ever faced. He cursed the fire demon that started their family quest and turned his father from Dad into Sir. He cursed the fate of his brother – never once knowing anything but the hunt, and the duty to protect…never wanting anything for himself. He used that anger, channeled into a reserve of strength he wasn't sure he had, and lifted Dean up and across his shoulders in a fireman's carry.

Dean groaned once, but remained limp. Sam concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. Ignore the pain. Ignore the pain. Ignore the pain. It isn't real. It isn't real. It isn't real. But he knew it was real. Just not for him.

www

_Part 4 – which is really part 2 of part 3, but who's counting – will be posted soon. I'd love to know what ya'll think so far._


	4. Part 4: Let Go

**Disclaimer/Spoilers:** See Part 1.

_Angsty chappie. But… I write 'em how I like 'em. Thank you for reading! _

a/n: _Okay, for those of you who have seen CSPWDT the week of October 19th, I just want to say that I had this drafted well before that episode. The slight similarities are purely unintentional. And the consistent theme that Dean is living on borrowed time, or has been saved from death is, I think, a byproduct of Dean's being Dean. The Powers That Be do not want this boy to die…they just want to mess with him for awhile_

Part 4

He thanked whatever guardian angle had the unlucky assignment to keep watch over the Winchesters when he saw the Impala. Brenna was sitting on the trunk, her knees up, heels hooked on the bumper, Glock hanging loosely in her hands. She heard their approach and her head jerked up followed by the gun. Thankfully it was pointed beyond him, covering his tail.

"I got him," Sam rasped out.

Brenna paled at the sight of Dean, unconscious, bloody, slung over Sam's shoulder. "God, Sam." She jumped down and ran to the back passenger door. "Get in with him, hold onto him."

Wearily Sam nodded. Dean was heavy and he was trembling from the effort of holding him and keeping the pain pushed deep where it wouldn't overwhelm him. Without thinking of the consequences of Dean finding out someone else – a female someone else – had driven his car, he handed her the keys.

He lowered Dean onto the seat carefully, attempting to keep his head from falling back onto the seat too harshly. Dean groaned at the movement. Sam crawled in, then pulled his brother's head and shoulders onto his lap. His eyes met Brenna's in the rear view mirror and he nodded that he was ready. Dean's eyes blinked open at the familiar rumble of his car.

"How is he?" Brenna asked.

Sam watched as Dean blinked himself more aware. He was silent, but shaking. Trembling so harshly that Sam felt compelled to wrap his arms around Dean to try to still him. Dean's head was against his right arm, and he rolled his head so that it rested close to Sam's chest. For a moment, Sam was touched by the gesture, then he realized that he didn't feel any pain. The dull ache was gone and the shivering fire that had wrapped around him lifted. He breathed a sigh of relief without thinking.

Dean had used that moment to brace himself, to breathe in his brother's scent, his brother's strength, and then close the lid on the box again. He didn't know if he had enough strength this time to lock it, but it was closed.

"Dean," Sam half-sobbed. "Don't."

"Have to, Sammy."

"We have to get him to a hospital," Sam said to Brenna.

"No," Dean said, his voice hard. "No hospital."

"Dean, man, you're…I don't know if we can stop this bleeding…"

"No hospital, Sam."

"I can help," Brenna spoke up.

"What?" Sam looked at the back of her head. "What do you mean?"

"I can…I have herbs…"

"You can heal him?"

_God I hope so,_ Brenna thought. "Yes."

Dean suddenly seemed to realize that Sam was holding him, they were moving, and someone else was driving his baby. His eyes flicked from Sam's face to the back of Brenna's head and back again.

"Sam. What the hell?"

Before Sam could answer, Brenna spoke up. "Look at it this way, Dean. If I hurt your car, you have a good reason to follow your Dad's orders."

Dean's jaw hardened. Sam knew he'd missed something, but didn't ask.

"Sam, gimme your phone," Brenna said.

"What?"

"Your cell phone," she said, holding out her hand over the back of the seat. "Gimme."

Sam was too tired to argue with her. Plus, he felt Dean's trembling increase. Anything to hurry up the healing process. Brenna grabbed it from him, and called home.

"Da," she said using a rare endearment to get his full attention. "I need your help." She rattled off instructions to him half in English, half in Gaelic. Just as she was about to hang up, she heard Dean's voice.

"S-salt."

"Salt?"

Sam caught on. "Have him put lines of salt, around every door, every window."

"Do I want to know?"

"Brenna, just have him do it."

"Fine."

Minutes later they pulled up to a screeching halt in front of the house. Brenna jumped out and ran directly into the house. Sam eased himself out from under Dean's head and shoulders. Dean was awake, but he'd seemed to put himself into a kind of trance to keep the pain away from Sam. He didn't respond when Sam called his name. Sam tried to be as careful as possible when easing him from the car, but Dean's hiss of pain made him wince.

He wasn't sure he'd be able to put him over his shoulder again to get him inside. At his hesitation, Dean said, "I can pretend, Sam."

"Pretend?"

"To not know about it."

Sam realized how close Dean was to losing it. His entire body was trembling with the effort to stay conscious; his jaw was clenched against the pain, his left hand fisted. Sam suddenly realized the .45 was still taped to his brother's hand.

"I got you," Sam whispered, tucking one arm under Dean's arms, and the other under his knees, then hefting him into his arms. Dean's head dropped back with a groan of pain. Sam went through the open doorway.

"Come this way," Brenna led them into the side bedroom off of the kitchen. There was a low cot-like bed across the room, away from the single window, a stone fireplace with a large wooden mantle piece, and a large armoire, the top doors propped open. As Sam entered the room, he glimpsed dozens of glass bottles lined up on the shelves in the armoire.

"Here," motioned Brenna to the bed. "Lay him down."

Sam hesitated, not sure if he could lower Dean to the cot without actually dropping him. Declan stepped up next to him. "Let me help," he said softly, easing Dean's weight from Sam's arms. Sam looked down at his brother's gasp. He held the other side of Dean as they both lowered him to the cot. Dean tried to help, not thinking about the empty .45 was still taped to his wounded right hand and as he moved his arm, he clocked Declan in the jaw.

Declan grabbed his jaw and let out a string of Gaelic that Sam could only assume was swearing. Dean's eyes clouded as he let out a low growl of pain. A wave of Dean's pain brought Sam swiftly to his knees next to his brother's cot. Dean's eyes closed tight, and he body shook once, hard, then settle back into the steady tremble from before.

"Whoa, whoa, easy," Sam soothed. "It's me, hey, Dean, it's me. It's Sam."

He grabbed Dean's good hand in his, thumb to thumb, as though he were about to arm-wrestle him. Dean shifted pain-filled eyes to his left until they rested on Sam.

"Sammy?"

"Yeah, it's me. You with me?"

Dean pressed his lips together and closed his eyes tight. He opened them slowly and looked back at his brother. "Yeah," he said in a tight voice. And with that word, Sam felt the pain instantly ease. He flipped out his pocket knife and cut away the tape, freeing Dean's hand from the gun. Declan took it from Sam, shaking his head. He was beyond trying to understand these boys.

"Did she follow us?"

"I don't think so."

"They salt the place?"

Sam looked at Declan. Declan nodded. He had no idea why he'd done that, but Brenna had asked him to, and that was enough for him. He looked at Brenna, glad to see she was in one piece. He wanted her to say that it was okay that he'd not been straight with John Winchester. He just wanted her to look at him. He wanted the reassurance of her gaze.

Brenna, though, was looking at Dean. Her eyes had gone back to their normal gold-green, but the pain etched on her features was heartbreaking. She lifted her eyes from Dean's face to Sam's, and something in his expression caused hers to shift. She turned, instantly all motion.

"Sam, I need your help."

He nodded, not letting go of Dean's hand, but watching her. Dean kept his eyes on Sam as though he was the focal point keeping the darkness at bay.

"Go to the kitchen and get me some clean towels, hot, hot water, and a bowl of ice. I also need you to go to the upstairs bathroom and grab the first aide box there. Da, I need you to get my sewing needle and the thinnest thread you can find. I need a fire to brew the – the remedy." She stopped short of saying potion. For two men who have hunted supernatural beings all their lives, she didn't see the need to remind them too much of what she was.

Sam stood, gently released Dean's hand and started out of the room. Dean immediately reacted to the absence of his brother. His breathing rapidly increased and he gripped the blankets on either side of him so tightly his knuckles turned white. Brenna leaned over him, brushing her cool hand over his hot brow.

"Shhh… it's okay, Dean."

Dean ignored her, his eyes darting frantically around the room, breath at a panicked rate.

"Dean. I need you to calm down for me, can you do that?" She knew that if his breathing increased, so would his heart rate, which would increase the amount of blood he was losing – and he couldn't afford to lose much more.

Dean's lips pressed tightly together and he tried to sit up. She pressed him back, grasping his shoulders, but he shoved her hands away. She suddenly realized he was looking for Sam.

"Sam!" she called. He couldn't have gone far. "Sam!" She was right. He was in the doorway in about two seconds. He first looked at her, then his eyes shifted immediately to Dean's struggling form. "Stay with him." She ordered.

"Dean, hey," Sam called, moving back to his place next to Dean's cot. Dean's green eyes fixed on Sam and he instantly calmed. "I'm here."

"Y'okay?"

"I'm fine, Dean." He grabbed Dean's hand again. He didn't even know if his brother was aware of that connection, but it made him feel better.

"Y'face is bleedin," Dean's words slurred.

Sam reached up to his head, surprised. He must have hurt it when the banshee grabbed his hair – that or when he hit the wall. Either scenario was plausible.

"Yeah, guess you're still safe as the good looking one."

"Better b'lieve it," Dean nodded, his jaw clenched.

Meanwhile, Declan had scrambled to gather the items Brenna had asked for. Brenna was two steps from the brothers, mixing an array of herbs into a bowl. She took the ice from Declan and added it to the herb mixture, then placed the bowl over the fire. Sam didn't ask why she couldn't have just added hot water to the herbs.

Now that Sam was near him again, Dean looked around the room. He, too, was watching Brenna. He slid his eyes to meet his brother's puzzled gaze. "Witch," he gasped out with a shrug as if to say 'what are you gonna do'.

"I guess," Sam shrugged.

"Sam call Dad."

Sam shot Dean a look. "Why?"

"Call him."

"Dean, it's not like he's going to come. He's never come before. Why should this be different?" Sam pouted.

"Brenna."

Suddenly Sam realized what Dean meant. He didn't want Sam to call their Dad to tell him about Dean…he wanted Sam to tell him that he'd been wrong about Brenna.

"Won't he figure it out when _we_ waste that banshee?" he stressed the 'we'.

"Could be too late."

Dean's lips twitched and he looked from Sam to Brenna. Her back was to them, but as if she felt his gaze, Brenna turned slightly and looked over her shoulder, meeting Dean's eyes. She lifted one corner of her mouth, offering him the solace of a conspirators smile.

"I'll call him, Dean."

"Promise."

Sam sighed. "I promise."

"Sam."

"Yeah?"

"She didn't get me."

Sam lifted a brow. "What the hell are you talking about? She sure as hell did."

Dean shook his head once. "Not in the neck."

Then Sam realized what Dean mean. His vision. Did that mean that they'd changed the outcome? Or did that mean that Dean was still in danger? He took a breath, not wanting to focus on that at the moment.

"You're right, Dean. She didn't get you. Now, hang on a sec so I can get these bloody bandages off and Brenna can fix you up."

Sam saw Dean start to protest, but Brenna stepped up to him, leaning over and saying softly, "Listen to your brother Dean."

It wasn't barked like orders to his brother usually were, but it was an order none the less. And Dean knew how to follow orders. He let go of Sam's hand and shifted his grip to the bed again. His shaking increased as Sam cut the bloody bandages away from the puncture wound while Brenna wiped down the rest of his chest.

"That holy water?"

Brenna looked at Sam, surprised. "No."

"He needs holy water. Our duffle…"

"I'm on it," said Declan from the doorway. He returned momentarily with a silver flask of holy water and handed it to Sam.

"Dean," Dean's eyes met Sam's. "This is going to hurt." Dean nodded and gripped the blanket.

As Sam poured the holy water on his brother's wounds, he mentally readied himself to feel the same onslaught of pain Dean would be feeling. Steam rose from the cuts on his chest and Dean cried out, his neck arching upwards, pressing his head back into the pillow. Sam felt nothing. He pulled his eyebrows together and looked at his brother in amazement. He would never again take for granted the stoic front Dean presented when hurt.

When he was done Dean pulled in huge gulps of air and looked from Brenna to Sam. "What are you waiting for," he rasped out.

"Your head to spin around," Brenna muttered, gently wiping the slashes on his chest with the clean rag and hot water. Sam's lips quirked as he saw Dean lift his eyebrow at her remark. She reached his puncture wound and her face tensed. It was deep, and the area around it had already started to turn red and swell with infection. She took a dry, folded cloth and grabbed Sam's hand.

"Press this against the wound as hard as he'll let you. We have to stop that bleeding."

Sam's eyes darted from Dean to Brenna. Last time he did this it had nearly killed them both. "Bren—"

"Sam. Do it." Dean interrupted. Sam looked at Dean, and something lingering in his brother's eyes worried him. The fight was still there, the determination, but desperation had started to drift in. Dean was getting scared. And Sam didn't know how to deal with a scared Dean. He pressed the cloth down. Dean growled and pressed his head back against the pillow again.

Brenna stood and went to her herb mixture boiling on the fire. As she turned to head back over to the brothers, Declan stopped her and leaned in to speak low in her ear. "You have to believe, girl."

She looked at him over her shoulder – away from the boys. "What are you talking about?"

"I see you doubting. You will lose him if you don't believe. He's on the edge."

Brenna's desperate eyes went to Dean's form on the bed, and to her surprise he was looking back at her. She pushed Declan out of the way and went over to him.

"Hey there," she whispered, wiping the back of her hand across her face, surprised to find tears. "How are you feeling?"

"Like a kabob," he rasped out.

She smiled at him, her eyes taking in his pale face, the freckles on his nose standing out in stark contrast. Those damn long lashes were sweeping his cheekbones with each blink, brushing the tiny scar under his right eye. His lips were pressed together, and she felt her belly clench at the memory of those lips on hers. "Listen to me, Dean. I'm going to do everything I can, okay?"

"I know," he said, and his green eyes flicked quickly over her face, lingering on her mouth. "Sorry…about before." He whispered.

"Yeah, that banshee's timing really sucked," Brenna nodded. She reached out a trembling hand to rest it against his cheek in the same way she had in the garage. She bit her lip when he pressed his hot cheek into her palm. A movement to her left caught her eye and she looked up to meet Sam's eyes.

"What can we do now?" he asked, his eyes flicking to the puncture wound with worry. _So he had heard_, Brenna thought. She was quickly realizing that there wasn't much this kid missed.

"We put this on the wounds," she said, reaching for a paste. "I also have a… what the hell, a potion, okay? For him to drink," she said, ignoring the Winchesters' looks of skepticism. "But we have to wait a bit until the balm sinks in."

"Do it now, girl."

Brenna didn't look at him.

"Brenna," Declan said, a warning note in his voice. "You have to believe to save him."

"This is on you, Da," she said softly, looking down at her hands. "All of this could have been stopped had they known what they were dealing with."

With one last look at his granddaughter, Declan turned and left the room. A few seconds later, they heard the front door slam, leaving the three of them alone in the small room. Sam stared at Brenna.

"Can you?"

She was trembling from the emotions coursing through her. "Can I what?"

"Save my brother," he said. She looked at him, hearing the child in his voice. The child that wanted to be told that everything was going to be okay. That there were no monsters in the closet, and nothing was going to hurt him while his older brother was there. She didn't answer him. Instead she gently slathered the paste onto the puncture wound, then put more on the slashes on Dean's side and shoulder.

Sam watched her for a moment, then took Dean's hand again. Dean slid his eyes from Brenna to Sam and blinked at him. Brenna stood, poured the potion of herbs into a mug, and carried it over to Dean. She had to hold his head up and help him pour the liquid down his throat. At the first taste he tried to pull away, but she held the cup firmly to his lips.

"All of it, Dean," she commended softly.

When he finished, she lay his head back, but was unprepared for the harsh, wet cough that followed. Dean's entire body shook with the effort and when it finally, blessedly stopped, he dragged a breath into his starving lungs. Suddenly his face crumbled and he clenched his eyes shut. He began to shake violently, almost like a seizure.

"Why is he shaking like that?" Sam cried out, looking at the paste on Dean's wounds, then up at Brenna and the cup in her hand.

She bit her lip and shook her head. "I don't know! There's nothing in the potion that would… oh."

"What?!"

"Sam, are you hurting?"

"What do you mean am I hurting? No I'm not – oh. Oh, god." He looked back down at Dean's clenched face. "Hey, hey, Dean." He shook their clasped hands once. "Dean, man, c'mon open those eyes. Look at me."

Dean's breath was coming in short, puffed gasps. He could never deny Sam. Not with that pleading tone in his voice. Sam knew it and laid it on thick. "Please, Dean. Look at me."

Dean's green eyes slowly opened as though they each weighed 50 lbs. He looked at Sam. "Let it go, man," Sam said. "You don't have to hold onto it. Let it go."

"Can't."

"Yes you can."

"No, Sammy…hurt you…" his breath was puffing out through his clenched jaw, and his eyes were pinned on his brother's face.

"I know, but it's not real hurt for me, Dean. Let me take it from you."

"C-can't hurt you, S-sammy."

Sam's heart lurched and he felt hot tears build in the backs of his eyes. "Dean, listen to me, man."

Dean lifted his eyes to meet his brother's.

"You have taken care of me my whole life. You've taught me everything I know. You protected me… you carried me when I couldn't make it myself. Now it's my turn. Let me help you."

Dean pressed his lips together in defiance, his shaking increasing. Sam was getting desperate. A thought occurred to him. He pulled Dean's hand to his chest, pressing the back of his brother's hand against his heart.

"Hey, Dean, you remember this?"

"N-nightmare," Dean gasped out.

"Yeah, that's right. When I'd have a nightmare you'd press my hand to your heart so I would know that you were there. That you had me. That you wouldn't let go." Sam swallowed past the lump in his throat. "You feel me, man? You feel that?"

Dean blinked once.

"I've got you. I won't let go. Let me take some of that burden, Dean. Let me take care of you." A single tear escaped through Sam's choked voice. He tightened his grip on Dean's hand and watched as Dean made his decision. The shaking started to ease and Sam braced himself.

It blinded him. For a moment there was only pain – white hot pain. He couldn't see anything, couldn't hear anything. But he held on to Dean's hand. He pressed it hard against his chest, and that connection brought him back. He dragged a breath into his lungs, blinking hard. He would _not_ pass out. If Dean could take this, so could he. He used all of his mental capacity to shove the pain down deep inside where he could capture it, contain it. When the roaring in his ears abated to a dull throb, he met Dean's eyes again.

Dean's shaking had stilled, but his features were still tight with pain. He watched Sam carefully and Sam knew that if he revealed the agony he felt with the tiniest of noises, Dean would kill himself trying to pull it away from him.

"See?" Sam ground out. "Now who's the awesome brother?"

Dean pressed his lips together and blinked. "You are, Sammy," he whispered. "You always were."

Brenna reached over and touched Dean's wrist, checking for his pulse. It was fast, erratic. His face was pale, his breathing coming in shallow pants. His eyes, though, never left his brother's face. She looked at the salve spread on his wounds and knew that if it were going to work, it would have started working by now. She covered her mouth with a shaking hand. Doubt threatened to consume her. She knew that her power was grounded in her belief, and at the moment, watching the trembling body of Dean Winchester desperately hang onto life, her faith was wavering.

Dean pulled in a breath and tightened his grip on Sam's hands, his eyes flashing wide for a brief moment. Coldness like he'd never experienced started spreading through his limbs. It numbed the fire in his side, the sharp pains in his shoulder, the fierce sting in his side. At first he welcomed it, welcomed the relief. Then he realized that he was starting to not be able to feel anything. And that was bad. Because feeling meant life. Pain meant he was still there, still with Sam.

Sam shook his head once. "No, no, don't you do this, Dean. Don't you dare."

He looked up at Brenna. Tears were coursing unchecked down her cheeks, and her fist was pressed to her mouth. "Why are you just standing there?" Sam asked her.

"Sam…" she started.

"NO!" Sam roared, making her jump. "Don't you tell me there's nothing you can do! What good is white magic if it can't save…"

"Sammy," Dean rasped, pulling on his hand. The connection between Dean's hand and Sam's heart broke for an instant, and Sam turned his attention to his brother immediately and pressed his hand back against his chest.

"Dean, don't. NO."

Dean just looked at him, and in that moment Sam saw in his brother's eyes the words the Winchesters never learned how to say. He knew Dean wanted to – he watched as Dean tried to form the words in his mouth, push them passed his lips, but 22 years of war and training were getting in his way. Dean pressed his lips together and his chin trembled. Sam mirrored his expression, and watched as his brother's green eyes filled with tears.

"Sam…"

"No," Sam whimpered.

"Let me go…"

"NO." Sam growled. "Dean… you can't ask me to do that. I can't do that."

"Gonna be fine, Sammy."

"No, Dean. Not without you."

Sam felt Dean try to tug his hand away, and he held on tighter. "I told you. I won't let go. I'll hold on forever if I have to."

Dean suddenly looked afraid and Sam felt his gut clench. The fear in his brother's eyes shifted to resolve. Sam felt the pain grow until it was everywhere. It peaked in his side and the rolled through his torso in waves. He clenched his jaw, keeping his eyes on Dean's. Dean blinked, and pulled in a breath, then another.

"That's it, Dean. Just breathe. With me. Breathe."

Another wave slammed into Sam and he bit his lip against a cry. Dean's face twisted in agony and he pulled in another shaky breath, trying to keep the darkness at bay.

"S-sam."

"Dean, don't you let go."

Dean gripped Sam's hand hard, once, then as Sam watched, Dean's eyes drifted closed, his breath left his body, and he relaxed, his hand going limp in Sam's grip. The pain that had been rolling over Sam stopped so suddenly he almost tipped over.

"Dean?"

The room was utterly still. Nothing moved, no one breathed.

"Dean?"

He heard Brenna whimper.

"No," he said, his voice sounding young and small in his ears. "No."

Sam heard a strange sound then. A low keening that seemed to build. It grew in volume until it seemed to fill the room. It echoed in his head and for a moment he thought the banshee had returned. Then he suddenly realized he had to breathe and it was then that he knew the noise came from him. He clenched his jaw, but the pained growl continued.

"Sam," Brenna tried -- her voice thick with tears. She felt as though someone were twisting her heart in her chest as she looked at the broken body of Dean Winchester, blood from his wound staining his jeans and the sheets under him, and his limp hand clasped in the desperate grip of his baby brother's hands. Sam ignored her and lowered his head to press his brother's hand against his forehead.

"There's still time," said a voice to Brenna's left. She jumped, not realizing Declan had rejoined them.

"What?"

"You can do this, girl. There is still time to save him."

She saw Sam's head jerk up, his face wet and his eyes swimming with tears. "Can you?"

She started to shake her head, and then she looked at Dean's still face. As if called to her by her power, the sensation of his kiss, the feel of his arms, the smell of him wrapped around her. She gasped and closed her eyes. She remembered seeing three faces in one on Dean. She remembered his hands fisted into her hair. She remembered his lips. She wasn't ready. Not yet. She wasn't ready to let him go.

Declan gripped the back of her neck, as a support and as a reminder. "Creideamh," he said into her ear. _Faith. Belief._

She stepped up to Dean's cot, leaned over and placed her cool hand on his still-warm forehead. Whispering low, she chanted the ancient Gaelic words of the druid queens, the words of faith that she'd often scoffed. She chanted them over and over, letting her voice recall the faith she'd once had.

Sam kept Dean's hand in his, and watched Brenna. He didn't understand the words, but he recognized ritual rites when he heard them. He'd spoken enough Latin in his time. When she quieted, he stared hard at her until she turned and looked at him. He wasn't surprised to see her eyes had changed to those of a birds.

"Now what?"

"We wait."

"How long?"

"I don't know, Sam."

"There has to be something else we can do."

She leveled her eyes at him. "You could pray."

Sam's chin trembled. He looked at Dean's too still form. When he was a kid, he'd asked Dean if he believed in Heaven. Dean had taken a long time to answer, his eyes darting quickly back in forth in thought. Sam knew that his brother would never lie to him, and he could tell the answer was being weighed heavily.

"_Yeah, Sam, I do."_

"_You do?"_

"_Yeah. I figure that there's a balance to everything, you know? And if we're out killing all these evil sons of bitches somewhere, somehow, there has to be good out there, too. Angels to match the demons."_

"_Why don't we ever see them?"_

"_Hell, kiddo, maybe we do."_

"_We do?"_

"_Maybe I'm looking at one right now."_

Sam remembered his brother's eyes had flicked over to rest on him with a smile. _Please_, he prayed silently. _Please._ He didn't know what else to say. Please don't let Dean stay gone? Please don't let him come back wrong? Please don't let me be pulling him from a heaven he deserves to be in? Please let this be the right thing to do? Please give me my brother back? Please don't leave me here alone?

Brenna reached down and lay a hand on Dean's chest, hoping for the movement of breath. He was warm. She bit her lip and leaned over him, ignoring Sam's stare, and gently pressed her lips to his. They were soft, pliable. They gave way to her pressure, but didn't press back. She lifted her head, looking at his closed eyes, the long lashes shadows on his pale cheeks.

With a small hitch in her breath she stood. Sam was watching Dean's face, still clutching Dean's hand against his chest. She opened her mouth to tell Sam she was sorry…it hadn't worked…when a jolt ran through her. She jerked and nearly fell backwards. She reached up desperately to grab the wooden mantel piece and keep her footing. She turned wild eyes to Sam. She could tell he'd felt the same surge. His back was against the wall directly behind him, his legs akimbo before him on the floor. But he hadn't let go of Dean's hand.

"What the hell was that?" Brenna breathed.

Before Sam could answer, Dean's back arched violently, pressing his head deep into the pillow and he grabbed a huge lungful of air. The muscles in his arms tightened mightily, inadvertedly pulling Sam towards him. He relaxed back on to the bed, eyes still closed. He started choking for air, gasping and coughing. Sam used his free hand and tipped Dean slightly to his side as if he were a drowning victim and needed to get the water from his lungs. It was the only thing he could think to do.

Brenna gathered her wits and came over to help Sam keep Dean tilted forward to get air. When he stopped choking and started pulling in air in great, grateful gulps, Brenna eased him back. She stepped away from the bed, shaking all over.

Declan stepped up behind her, putting a hand on her shoulder and easing her into his embrace. "See?" he said. She gave a weak laugh and rested her head on his shoulder.

"Dean?" Sam leaned over his brother, using one of the clean rags to wipe his face. "Hey, hey man. Open your eyes. Please."

Dean lay still, breathing, but still. His eyes remained closed. Sam looked up at Brenna.

She looked back at him. "I don't know, Sam."

"Trust me to pick the only novice witch in Blackroot, Massachusetts to save my brother."

"Just…give it a minute, Sam," Declan said.

Sam held Dean's hand against his chest, and Brenna checked the dressings on his wounds. The bleeding had stopped and the salve was soaking in. Declan stood at the foot of the cot. They all seemed to hold their breath, listening for Dean's. The room was quiet save for the crackling of the fire in the fireplace and the raspy, wonderful sound of Dean breathing. An hour passed. Two. No one moved.

Then, as Sam watched, Dean pulled his eyebrows together and quirked his lips. Sam felt his brother's fingers tighten around his. Dean's lashes fluttered, and he began to open his eyes.

"Hey, man," Sam whispered.

Dean slowly rolled his head toward the sound of Sam's voice. His eyes barely slits of green, he looked from Sam's face, to their clasped hands.

"You didn't let go," he whispered to Sam.

"Told you," Sam practically sobbed.

"Dean, do you remember what happened?" Brenna asked.

Dean started to tremble. As awareness returned, so did the pain. His side was on fire and the cuts on his chest and arm felt like they were glowing. He looked down as best he could and saw that they were covered in some purplish goo. He pulled his brows together and looked back at his hand clasped tightly in Sam's. _Sam._ He thought suddenly.

"Sam," he said.

"Yeah."

"You okay?"

Sam shook his head in amazed exasperation. Then he looked at Dean's eyes and realized what he was asking. "I'm not hurting, Dean."

Dean seemed to sag a little in the bed. His eyes were growing heavy. The warmth was comforting after the intense cold he'd felt. A lot of his memory was foggy, but he remembered Sam's voice. His promise to not let go. He remembered trying to breathe with his brother. He remembered falling in the dark and the utter, desolate cold that seeped into his bones. Then… he was drowning. And now he was warm again, Sam was here, and he was alive…

Suddenly it hit him. He'd died. He'd _died_. "Holy shit."

"What, Dean?"

"Sam. I died."

"I know. But you're here now. You're back. Brenna brought you back."

"But…how?" He lifted his eyes to Brenna's.

"Part magic, part will, and a whole lot of faith. And only possible because you died an unnatural death."

"So, I'm not like…a zombie or anything?" Dean asked, his voice rough.

Brenna's lips twitched. "Hardly."

Dean sighed in relief and without thinking started to sit up. The flash fire of pain in his side pulled him up short with a cry of pained surprise.

"You're not out of the woods yet, though." Brenna stood and went for the first aide kit and her sewing supplies. "You lost a lot of blood and we have to get those holes in you stitched up."

"I'll help," Sam said. He almost reluctantly let go of Dean's hand, then pushed himself to his feet. Unexpectedly, the room spun and he felt himself sway.

Brenna was at his side instantly. "Whoa, there, kiddo. Take it easy. You've been through a lot, too, you know. How about you just sit back down and you can help keep your brother calm."

Dean watched worriedly as Sam nodded, and sat back on the floor, back to the wall, near his head.

"Sam?"

"I'm okay, Dean."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure… I just… I need a minute."

Dean swallowed. "I'm sorry, Sam."

Sam looked at him. "For what?"

"For letting myself get caught. For letting my guard down. For dragging you into this." Dean's voice had been soft, but Sam heard the tremor there.

"Dean, listen. You haven't dragged me anywhere in a long time. I would go into hell if it meant getting you back. Got it?"

Dean lifted an eyebrow and looked sideways at his brother. "Yeah, I got it."

Brenna came back over with the first aide kit. "You ready for this?"

Dean nodded silently. He wasn't really, but what choice did he have? He regarded Brenna as she calmly wet a towel with antiseptic. John would have killed her on the spot, he realized. Without question. Witch equals evil. Just as Brenna was about to clean away the paste, Dean gasped and looked at Sam.

"Dad!"

Sam looked confused. "What about him?"

"We have to call him – about Brenna."

Sam lay a hand on his brother's arm. "I know, Dean. We talked about this."

"We did?"

"Yeah, you made me promise to call."

"Did you?"

"Not yet."

"Well why the hell not?"

Sam raised an eyebrow. "I've been a little busy, what with my brother's death and all."

Dean relaxed a bit. "Oh. Right."

"Boys," Brenna said, poised above Dean's torso. "Can this wait."

"Yeah," they said together.

"Sam, you want to hold him down?"

Dean grimaced. "He doesn't need to hold m – AH! Sonofabitch!"

Brenna cleaned the paste away with the antiseptic and Dean bucked against the pain. Sam reached across to help hold him still. Dean clenched his teeth together and literally growled as Brenna cleaned the cuts and the puncture wound. When she was done, he sagged against the bed in relief.

"How you doin', there, brother?" Sam asked.

"Just peachy, Sam," Dean ground out between clenched teeth.

At that Sam had to grin. Dean had batted a banshee, died, and returned, but he was still _Dean_. He met Brenna's eyes as she readied the sewing needle. He nodded to her, and she started with the puncture wound. Dean tried, he really did, but his defenses had been battered beyond all recognition and he screamed out in pain. Sam found himself hoping that Dean would just pass out, even though they'd just gotten him back again. Feeling his brother tremble beneath his hands and listening to his anguished cry was almost more than he could handle.

He felt the tears build again. "It's gonna be okay, Dean. Just hang in there," he whispered to his brother in a mantra of reassurance.

Dean gasped out a cry as Brenna finished with the puncture wound. She willed her hand to stop shaking and spread some more of the healing balm over the sutures.

"Y-you're not c-crying, are you, F-francis?" Dean gasped out behind closed eyes, his jaw clenched and his neck muscles tense.

"Shut up, jerk."

"B-bitch," Dean retorted.

Brenna looked at them with her eyebrows practically meeting in the middle of her forehead. "You're both crazy."

"Says the witch," the brothers retorted together.

She looked at them in surprise, but they weren't looking at her. Dean's eyes were closed, and Sam's eyes were on Dean's face. She looked at the cut on Dean's arm, decided it would heal without stitches, then moved to the two deep slashes on his right side and the wounds to his shoulder. She was able to sew them up without much noise from Dean. She knew he had been through this before – she had felt the results for herself.

About twenty minutes later, she patted Dean's arm. "There you go, tough guy. Sorry to say, but you're going to have a few more scars to add to your collection."

"Ch-chics dig sc-scars," he whispered.

_I know this one does at least_, Brenna thought, looking down at him. His lashes had tee-pee'd again from the sweat rolling off his brow, and the only color on his face was from the fever lighting his cheeks, but he was alive. He was lying on her bed, breathing, because of her. She took a breath. They would have to clean up that bed, but she didn't want to move him just yet.

"How about you, Sam?"

Sam didn't take his eyes from Dean's face. "How about me what?"

"Want to let me clean up that pretty face of yours?"

At that, Dean's eyes opened. "Man, you look like crap," he whispered to his brother.

"Whatever, Dude," Sam said. "I look better than you."

"Not possible."

"Sam, that potion should help him sleep. It's okay, you can leave him for a little bit," Brenna said softly, resting a hand on Sam's shoulder.

Dean's eyes were drifting shut. Sam sighed and put a hand on Dean's shoulder, then stood. Suddenly Dean roused himself, eyes darting until he found his brother.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"You gonna be here when I wake up?"

Sam nodded, resting his hand on the top of Dean's head. "I'll be right here, Dean."

Dean's eyes closed again. "'Kay."

www

_Part 5 – the 'battle with the banshee', and Part 6 – the 'goodbye & deal with papa' should be posted over the next two weeks. I can't hold them longer than that or they will eat me alive. I look forward to hearing what you think._


	5. Part 5: Truth?

**Disclaimer/Spoilers:** See Part 1

_The song Brenna is singing is "What is and What Should Never Be" by Led Zepplin. This show has fueled my already crazy classic rock obsession._

_This is a transition chapter to get us from Dean's "resurrection" to the fight. Hope you enjoy!_

Part 5

Dean slept. Sam sat on the floor of the small room, his back against the wall to the left of the low cot, one leg stretched out in front of him, the other bent underneath him. He watched his brother. The early morning light stole through the small window, filtered by a sheer white curtain. The fire had long since died down, but every once in awhile a wayward crack would send a spark up the chimney.

Sam sat, listened to the near silence, and just watched his brother sleep. Dean's eyelashes cast dark shadows in contrast to his still-pale features. His lips were slightly parted. A bare arm rested lightly on the left side of his chest. Sam knew how thick the bandages were on the right side. He'd put them there himself. Dean's silver ring glinted on is right hand, resting by his side atop the sheet. And that leather-strapped necklace that Dean was never without lay slack on his neck, the medallion resting in the hollow of his throat.

Sam ignored the hard floor, the cramped space he'd wedged himself in just to be close to his brother, and simply kept his eyes on Dean – almost afraid he could vanish. Brenna had cleaned his head wound, put in a couple of stitches, and declared that he did not need magic healing. Her attempt at levity had fallen on deaf ears as Sam had practically sprinted back to the room, the fear of letting Dean out of his sight just that little bit wrapping around his heart and squeezing the breath from his lungs. He couldn't believe how close he'd come to losing him tonight. Forever. For always.

Dean was his constant. His one truth – the one person who was just always there. He'd taken some pretty bad beatings in his young life, and he'd always come back swinging with a sharp retort and a light in his eye that Sam used to try to emulate when he was younger and simply admired as he grew older. Dean's way of attacking the world had taught Sam more about life than any number of years at Stanford, or any number of drills his father had put them through. He owed Dean. He owed him his life. Watching his brother breathe he wondered if he'd ever told him that. He could remember telling Dean he needed him, that he missed him, but…had he ever just said _thanks_?

Dean's brow furrowed once and he tightened his back, and then relaxed. He'd been doing that off and on throughout the night, as though caught in a dream, but too exhausted to pull himself out of it. It never looked too violent, too scary, so Sam let him sleep. Lord knew he needed it. Sam knew that he should be in a hospital, on oxygen, with machine's monitoring his heart, and blood restoring the mass that he lost – but Dean hated hospitals. He would be pissed if he woke up in one. And truth be told, Sam didn't know if he could stand to see him there again. Not after Nebraska.

Sam looked at the cell phone held loosely in his limp hands. _Call Dad_, Dean had said. Twice in fact. During the first few hours of the night, Brenna sat with him as he kept his vigil over Dean. He'd asked her about her comment in the Impala…about following Dad's orders. She told him what she knew – she'd known only that Dean had spoken with their father and that the outcome was that he had to believe Brenna was evil. Sam had cringed for Dean. He knew what that meant. Evil dies, end of story. No wonder Dean had been in pain. He never went against Dad. Never.

What could he say? _Dad, you were wrong? Next time maybe you'll listen to your son?_ Listen. John Winchester didn't listen. He was the authority. He was the rule. _Dad, Dean died last night. But a witch brought him back._ Sam actually shivered at the thought of telling is father that. What if he doubted the miracle? What if he thought Dean was…wrong? He still feared the day he would have to tell his father about his visions.

Dean took a shaky breath and Sam focused on his face, hoping, but his eyes didn't open. Sam knew he needed his rest, but he missed him. He missed his eyes, always steadily watching, noticing more than anyone – even Sam – gave him credit for. He missed his movement, the way he was always in motion… unless he didn't know what to do, and then he'd stop, dead still, until he could see his way clear. He missed his incessant chatter when he was in a good mood. He missed the sounds that were his brother.

He missed those things more now, in this moment, than when he'd been away from him for two years. He suddenly recalled how Dean had said their Dad had driven by Stanford – just to check on him. He wondered how their hunts had managed to bring them to California so often. He wondered if Dean had been with him. Obviously his brother had known where he lived. He looked at Dean's bar arm, resting above the clean sheet Brenna had put on the bed. He thought knew every scar on his brother's body – he'd been there when most had happened. But last night, sewing up the angry gashes across Dean's ribs, Sam had seen one that he didn't remember. One that he hadn't been there for.

"Not get him…:" Dean mumbled. Sam's eyes flew up to his brother's face. His brows were once again pulled together, his eyes frantically darting back and forth under his closed lids.

Sam reached a hesitant hand up and rested it on Dean's hot forehead. Brenna said that the fever was burning out the infection, but he felt awful hot to Sam. He was sweating, though, so maybe Brenna was right. Sam knew from experience that a hot, sweaty brow was a lot better than a hot dry brow. Though Dean was unconscious, it still bothered Sam that he didn't pull away from this touch.

"Take me…"

"Shhhh… it's okay, Dean. I'm here. You're safe."

"Take me…" Dean whispered again, turning his head toward Sam's touch, his eyes roaming the closed lids faster, his breathing picking up. "Promised…I promised…"

"What did you promise, Dean?"

"Take care of Sammy…"

"You do take care of me, big brother. It's okay, you're okay."

"Tell him…"

"What, Dean?"

"Tell him…" Dean's voice grew more anxious, more adamant.

Sam tried to swallow and found that he couldn't. He nodded, stroking his brother's forehead. "I'll tell him, Dean."

Dean seemed to settle with that, and sighed a bit, his frantic search of the darkness behind his eyes slowing, and then stopping as he sank back into a restive sleep.

Sam closed his eyes, and then gripped the cell in his fist, pounding it twice against his forehead. _You want betrayal…how about 22 years of loyalty and obedience discarded in one night…_ Sam clenched his jaw, his brother's voice bouncing around in his head, haunting him. _I did everything the man asked me and 'pah' just gone, without a word_… Even the shape shifter had known. _I could see this wound inside of him. Something that had scarred over and been ripped open several times. And it was…it was like it was bleeding..._ Brenna trying to explain his own brother to him.

With a low growl, Sam stood. He looked down at Dean's sleeping form for another moment, then left the small room. The house was quiet. Brenna and Declan had gone to bed hours ago. Sam didn't want to go far in case Dean woke up. He didn't want him to wake up alone. He stepped out onto the porch, leaving the door open.

He flipped open his phone, scrolling down the list of names until he stopped on Dad. Swallowing again, he hit the send button. Part of him, he suddenly realized, hoped against hope that his Dad would actually pick up. He realized that he needed to tell him what had happened, needed to hear his Dad say that it was going to be okay, that Dean was back now, that he wouldn't leave him, that they'd done the right thing, that getting the banshee wasn't the priority, getting Dean out had been…

_This is John Winchester…_

Sam let out a shaky sigh, waiting for the message to finish. At the beep he cleared his throat. "Dad. It's Sam." _Dean's hurt really bad. He died, Dad. I got him back, but he needs you. She took him because he doesn't know how much he needs you. She took him because you made him a soldier before he ever learned how to be a kid. She took him because he lost his Mom and his Dad in the same night. She took him because no one ever told him that they were proud of him, that it was okay to cry, that needing his Dad was normal..._ "Ah, listen. Dean and I found the thing that's after the Kavanagh's. It's a banshee. It's cursed, Dad. And that's why it's after Declan. So, ah, Dean just wanted you to know not to come after Brenna. She's not what you think she is, Dad."

He clicked the phone shut. No goodbye. No, I miss you. No, do you hate me. No, can I come back home now.

"He knows, Sam," the soft voice behind him made him jump.

Brenna stood, barefoot, wearing a short sleeved white T-shirt and a pair of gray sweatpants with the word _Terriers_ down the leg. Her hair was pulled into a knot at the back of her head, and her eyes looked puffy, like she'd been asleep moments ago. Sam's lips quirked. If Dean could see her at this moment he would probably ignore the fact that his entire right side was a mass of stitches.

"What?"

"He knows that Dean needs him, that you need him," she whispered.

"How do you know?"

Brenna shrugged. "I just do. I can't explain it more than that."

Sam sighed. "Well, it's a beautiful lie, his telling himself that he's taking care of us by abandoning us."

"He's scared, Sam."

Sam clenched his jaw, narrowing his eyes at her. "Of what?"

"Losing you."

Sam shoved the cell phone in his pocket and walked back into the house, closing the door softly, but firmly behind him. "He lost me a long time ago. He doesn't even know who I am. And he just about lost Dean last night – and he almost lost him once before – but he has no idea."

"He hasn't lost you, Sam. You're too much alike."

At that, Sam started. Like his father? He was nothing like his Dad. Dean was the strong one, the warrior, the protector. Dean followed orders, got things done, never complained, did the job. Sam fought his Dad at every turn, argued, questioned, wondered. Dean had the heart of a rogue, Sam the heart of a romantic. _Dean_ was just like his Dad, not Sam.

Suddenly, Sam was reminded of Declan's greeting to Dean. _Boy, you must take after your mom, because there ain't a hint of John in you._ It occurred to Sam that he had no idea what his mother was like. He always assumed he was like her because he saw Dean as his father's son. But, then, he looked at Brenna, her softness, her stealthy beauty, her obvious power, and he realized that Dean hadn't just been attracted to her pretty face. He'd been pulled to her because he saw inside of her, probably without actually realizing it. A lot of what Dean did was done by instinct, without the thought process Sam generally agonized through. That was the feeling he'd been trying to explain to Sam before they went into the mill house. Behind his pirate's smile, Dean felt true emotions for her.

For a moment there, Sam had been ready to mark her as the enemy and be done with it. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that if she hadn't been able to save Dean, he would have had no qualms about letting the banshee take her. That's where people got him wrong. He was darker than they gave him credit for. And that was like John. That was exactly like John.

Sam sighed again, realizing that he'd been staring at Brenna without speaking for nearly a minute. She stared right back, waiting for his thoughts to cease their tumble. He blinked at her, thinking.

"Yeah, well, maybe if we weren't so alike, he'd actually like me more," he said, brushing past her and going back to Dean. He sat back on the floor, watching Dean breathe. "I called him," he said.

Dean turned his head toward Sam's voice.

Sam sighed, suddenly very tired. He reached up and touched Dean's forehead. When his brother didn't react, he rested his hand on the top of Dean's head. The touch, the connection between them comforted him, balanced him.

"Thanks, Sammy," Dean sighed in his sleep.

Sam blinked, then blinked again. The time between his eyes actually being open lengthening. Shifting forward, he rested his head on the cot near Dean's left shoulder, keeping his hand on Dean's head. In minutes, he was asleep.

www

_Dean was standing in a field of grass. He had no idea how he got there, just that no matter which way he turned, there was knee-high, blowing grass as far as he could see. Kansas had looked like this, he remembered. But this wasn't home – Lawrence hadn't looked like this. And where the hell was Sam? For a year now he'd not been anywhere that Sam wasn't – or at least knew how far away Sam was to him. Now… he couldn't remember where Sam had gone. And why he wasn't there._

_As he slowly turned, surveying each direction, panic clutched his heart. Maybe Sam was hurt. Could he have been hurt? Someone was hurt. He remembered that. Someone had been hurt, and there had been screaming, and…Sammy had cried. What the hell? Sammy had cried. Maybe Dad was hurt. But he couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Dad either…_

_Dean stopped turning and stood still, his ears straining to hear something, anything outside of the wind. He never liked being alone. He was better when he had someone to take care of, someone to focus on, someone to protect – he was better when Sam was with him. He didn't like being alone because he didn't know who he was with when he was alone. The only person that scared him was himself, and he never left – he was always there. Even John's fiercely barked orders or seemingly cold indifference didn't _scare _him. Sure, it hurt him, but ultimately, who really cared about that?_

_He was getting anxious. The wind picked up and tossed the long grass around more, turning it silver. He used to like the wind – sometimes he even felt like he could lean back and the wind would just hold him up, care for him. And he might even let it. But this wind…this wind was starting to get on his nerves. It was…it was screaming at him. Screaming that it was going to take someone…someone…Sam. It was going to take Sam._

"_No!" He cried into the nothing. "Take me!"_

_The wind screamed Sam's name. Louder, shaking him from the inside out._

"_Take me!" He screamed again, his arms spread wide. He didn't know who he was yelling at, or where they were going to take Sam, but he could feel that it wasn't good. It wasn't a good place they were going to take him._

_He heard it clearly then. The wind asked him why._

"_Because I promised," Dean said, turning in a full circle again, trying to pin down the location of the voice. The sky seemed to darken like the coming of a summer storm. He felt a rumble beneath his feet. "I promised I'd take care of him. Take care of Sammy."_

_He turned to look over his shoulder at the nothing. "You hear me? I PROMISED."_

_The wind mocked him. He doesn't care, it teased. He doesn't know. He doesn't understand._

"_Then I'll tell him," Dean cried. "I'll tell him!"_

_What?_

"_Whatever I have to," Dean said, whipping around again to face nothing. "Whatever you want me to. Just don't take him."_

_You can't tell him. You don't believe._

"_Sure I do. I believe."_

_Liar._

"_Hey! Who you calling names? You don't even exist. You're in my head."_

_If we don't exist, why are you afraid?_

_Dean felt his knees tremble. "Just…just please. Please don't take him. He's all I have. He's everything I am… he's the only good in me. Please…"_

_Do you deserve him, Dean?_

_Dean gave in to the weakness and sank to his knees in the massive field of grass. "No," he whispered._

_Does he deserve you, Dean?_

_He brought his head up, not sure how to answer the wind. Did Sam deserver a brother who was always giving him a hard time? A brother who was only half as good as he was himself? A bother who only knew how to follow orders, how to jump in front of a bullet – fired from a number of different kinds of weapons – and not much more? A brother who had pulled him from a normal life – a life with a girl he loved – back into the Winchester craziness just because he couldn't stand to be alone anymore?_

"_No," he whispered. And suddenly, the summer storm turned into a tornado. The sky around him turned green. Dean felt the wind pull at his coat, his arms, try to pull on his legs. He heard its wicked laugh. He felt it pierce his side and slash his ribs. He felt its scream in his bones. _

_He tried to stand, but his strength deserted him, left him vulnerable, shaking, and alone. He tried to fight the wind. Desperate to grab onto anything to keep him where he was… then he felt warmth on his head. He felt fingers in his hair. He looked over his shoulder, but saw nothing but angry, empty sky. He felt, rather than heard, a tired sigh, and the fingers felt heavier. Sam. It was Sam's hand he felt._

_The wind slowed, the sky changed from a dangerous green to a steel gray. The grass began to sway gently. And Dean found he could stand up. With Sam's hand on his head, he could stand against the wind. _

"_Thanks, Sammy," he whispered. And the wind stilled.  
_

www

This time when Dean awoke it was in stages. The first thing he was aware of was a dull ache in his back. The next was what felt like a cement block laying on top of his right side, trying unsuccessfully to smother the cold fire that was hovering over his ribs, shoulder, and lower right side. The third was an unbearable thirst. Without opening his eyes, he tried to lick his lips, but found his tongue was dry and felt too large for his mouth.

He braved the world and slowly blinked his eyes open. His eyes were gritty, and they burned with the onslaught of light filtering in from the small window. He looked at the light for a moment. Just looked. Because, he realized, he could. He smelled the dying embers from the fire in the fireplace and tried to turn his head to the left to see it. That's when he realized that Sam's hand was resting heavily on top of his head.

He turned his head carefully so as not to dislodge Sam's hand, and saw that his brother was sitting on the floor, his freakishly long legs apparently spread out under the low cot, and his head burrowed against Dean's side. For a moment, Dean's breath caught in his throat. How many times while Sam was growing up had he fallen asleep against Dean, forcing his older brother to either scoot over in the bed and let him lay there, or pick him up and carry him to his own bed?

"Sam," he tried to say, but it came out as a dull croak. He forced himself to swallow and tried again. "Sammy."

Sam's head popped up like someone just shot off a starter pistol. He stared straight ahead, not at Dean. Dean could see even from this angle that he wasn't fully awake. His brown eyes were dilated and he blinked very slowly. Dean had seen this before. He had taken advantage of this before. Sam was very pliable for information when he was hovering in the realm between waking and sleeping.

But Dean was so thirsty, and Sam had fallen asleep on his left hand, which was now tingling with pins and needles. He said his brother's name again and Sam jerked like he'd been hit.

"Easy, tiger, it's just me," Dean calmed. Sam blinked again, and Dean watched awareness seep in with relief.

"Dean?"

"Hey."

"Hey back, man. How are you feeling?" Sam had finally moved his hand from the top of Dean's head and was now clutching his left arm like a life preserver.

"Like I slept with a hamster in my mouth."

"It's probably the potion. I'll get you some water."

_Potion_, Dean thought. The events of the night before slammed into him with the force of a sledgehammer. The banshee's torture, keeping the pain from driving Sam insane, the complete and utter exhaustion chased by fear, the coldness, and then…nothing. No sound, no light, no sensation whatsoever. And worst of all, no Sam…no Dad…and no hope.

But then there had been sensation. Lots of it. Pain. And light. And noise. And Sam. Because of Brenna. Because of magic. Because he had disobeyed a direct order. Sam was gone for just a few seconds when he returned with a cup of water and helped Dean tilt his head up to drink it.

His thirst satiated and his lips wet from the water, Dean lay his head back against the pillow and sighed. Sam sat back down on the floor, leaning his back against the wall, and tilted his head toward Dean.

"We didn't get her, did we." It wasn't a question.

Sam didn't meet his brother's eyes. "No."

Dean nodded. "We'll have to go back, Sam."

Sam lifted a brow at him. "I plan on it."

Dean shifted his heavy eyes to meet his brother's. "You're not going alone."

Sam's jaw hardened with equal determination. "You're not coming with me."

Dean struggled to sit up, needing the leverage to sufficiently yell at his brother. The pain in his side stopped him cold. Sam didn't even bother to wince in sympathy. "See?" he said.

"I just need a boost, Sam."

"Dean, please," Sam swallowed, then looked directly at his brother. To Dean's surprise, there were tears swimming in Sam's eyes.

"Sam…what is it?"

"Dean…you died last night."

Dean pressed his lips together, his eyes shifting away from Sam. He didn't know what to say.

"Part of me went with you."

At that, Dean looked at Sam, surprised. "What?"

"I can't lose you, Dean. Not like that. Not again."

"You're not going to lose me, Sam."

"My vision could still –"

"Sam," Dean's voice caught. He stopped, took a breath and tried again. "I crossed Dad with this one. I have to make it right."

Sam's eyebrows practically met over his nose. "Dad was wrong, Dean."

Dean shook his head once. "Doesn't matter. I have to make it right."

Sam's lips quivered. He looked away from his brother's green eyes and pale face, trying to find a place on the wall he could stare at and gather strength. "Why do you have to be so damn stubborn," he whispered.

"I think I learned it from you," Dean said, a small smile in his voice.

"What?"

"You ever hear that saying that insanity is genetic – you get it from your children?"

"I guess."

"Sam, your will almost defeated me a million times over when you were a kid. I had to be able to bully you into doing what I needed you to do. Then you had to go and get all…ginormous."

Sam lifted an eyebrow, "Really."

Dean nodded. "I kinda had to relearn how just to be your brother."

"You were always my brother, Dean," Sam said softly, clearly stating that was better than the pseudo-parent Dean had been forced to become at such a young age. As though the word 'brother' carried with it all the love and appreciation Sam felt toward Dean, but never figured out just how to say to him. Sam couldn't remember the fire that took their Mom, he couldn't remember leaving Lawrence, but he could remember Dean teaching him to tie his shoes, ride a bike, dunk cookies, throw a punch, drive a car… he remembered like they each happened yesterday.

"Well, as your brother, I'm telling you, I have to do this. I have to make it right."

Sam set his jaw. "Fine. You get out of that bed, and we'll talk."

Dean tilted his head. "What?"

"You get up out of that bed, and we'll see if you can fight a banshee."

Dean relaxed his mouth into a half grin. "Well, seeing as how we don't even know what will kill it –"

"So not the point, Dude."

"Fine."

Dean took a breath. He gripped the side of the bunk with his left hand and slowly, painfully rolled to that side. He bit his lip bloody to keep from crying out. He didn't look at Sam. Instead, he focused on a knot in the wood floor. His whole universe became that knot. There was nothing but that knot. He shifted his left leg to the floor, sill lying on his side. Then he began the horrendous task of swinging his right leg over and using that momentum to sit up. Once upright he paused for a moment to catch his breath and fight away the black crowding his vision.

Sam scrambled out of the way, not wanting to help – because he _wanted_ Dean to stay in bed – but also not willing to be party to Dean's hurting himself more than he already was. He watched Dean's eyes close, his breath forcibly become deeper and slower, trying desperately not to pass out, his color go from pale to gray. Then, as if by sheer will, color returned to his face and his green eyes opened. He looked up at the mantel piece, seemed to realize that it was too high, and instead reached out his left arm for the stone fireplace.

His fingers gripped the stone, and, keeping his right arm tight against his heavily bandaged right side, he forced his legs to bare his weight. The change in altitude sent his color plummeting again, and Sam thought he was going to have to catch him when his eyes closed, but he breathed through it and after about a minute was able to open his eyes again.

"See?" he said, his voice weak, "Nothin to it."

Sam glared at him. "You keel over and I'm not catching you."

Dean licked his dry lips. "Don't be such a girl, Sam." He looked down at his partially bare torso. He never liked being shirtless too long. Too many scars…too many memories of how they got there. He'd taken his shirt off more on this job than any other. And he knew who to blame for that. "Think I could get a T-shirt, Sam?"

"Right. Like you could lift it over your head."

Dean lifted an eyebrow. "Think I could get something?"

Sam sighed and went to the chair on the other side of the armoire. Dean leaned a hand back against the fireplace when Sam turned his back. It was then he noticed his jeans were clean – no blood collecting around the waistband. How the hell… maybe he didn't want to know.

Sam handed him a button-down green shirt. Dean took it with his left hand, removing it from the fireplace, and contemplated the best way to pull it on. Sam took pity on his brother, watching his hand shake from exertion.

"Here. Let me help you," he grumbled.

Dean smiled, though it was ghosted by the pain in his side. "Thanks, Sammy."

"Listen, I think I might've found something in the journal. Give me a sec and I'll bring it back to you."

"It still in our room?"

"Yeah," Sam said, pausing at the doorway. "You gonna be okay?"

Dean sighed. "I promise not to do anything about the banshee until you get back."

"That's not what I meant," Sam said, his eyes leveled on Dean's.

Dean pressed his lips together. "I'll be okay, Sam."

After taking a few tentative steps, Dean realized that his legs weren't nearly as shaky as he first thought they were. He was exhausted and sweating by the time he reached the door way, though. Once through it, he wasn't sure if it would be a better idea to turn back to the cot, or just let gravity take over. Then he heard her.

"_Catch the wind, see us spin, sail away, leave today, way up high in the sky. But the wind won't blow, you really shouldn't go, it only goes to show that you will be mine, by takin' our time_."

He made his way slowly to the kitchen, focusing only on the sound of her voice and putting one foot in front of the other. He reached the worn kitchen table and grasped the back of one of the chairs like it was a lifeline. His knuckles turned white as he gripped it and he blinked away the blurriness to look up at where Brenna stood in front of the stove, hair up in a knot, white T-shirt and gray sweatpants…dancing. Good Lord she was dancing. Her back was to him and he could see the tattoo on the back of her neck.

She started singing again, her hips swaying and her shoulders rotating to a beat apparently on she could hear. "_And if you say to me tomorrow, oh what fun it all would be. Then what's to stop us, pretty baby. But What Is And What Should Never Be_."

God help him, the girl was singing Led Zepplin. Dean clenched his jaw to keep it from dropping open. She turned suddenly then and saw him, letting out a yelp and dropping the wooden spoon she was using. Dean jumped, swayed, caught himself, and eased down into the chair he had been gripping. Sheepishly she pulled the tiny white earbuds from her ears and touched a button on the iPod fastened to her hip.

"Dontcha just love Zepplin?"

Dean gave her a half grin. "More than life itself," he said as honestly as he could.

"Good to see you up," she said, grinning at him.

She had flour across the bridge of her nose and smeared on her right cheek. _Kill me now_, Dean thought. He never usually went for someone so…natural. At that thought he almost laughed. Brenna was as far from _natural_ as Sam.

"I'd say good to be up, but it seems my body has other ideas," Dean gave her a shaky smile.

She looked instantly concerned. "You want some help back to –"

"Nah," Dean hastened to reply. "Sam'll be back in a minute. I'll just wait until he gets back."

She nodded, retrieved her wooden spoon and rinsed it in the sink. "I'm making pancakes. Think you could eat?"

Dean's eyebrows went up. "Chocolate chip?"

Brenna gave him an impish grin. "Is there any other kind?"

"There's blueberry," Sam said from the doorway, looking with surprise at his brother sitting in a chair at the table. He was leaning heavily on his left arm, though, and he wasn't taking his eyes off of Brenna. "But chocolate chip always seems to win."

"You just gotta have an in with the chef, Sammy," Dean said, still looking at Brenna.

"Uh-huh," Sam sat down next to Dean, close enough that their shoulders touched, and opened the journal. He didn't say anything when he felt Dean's weight shift to lean on him. They turned their attention to the page Sam had opened in the journal. It was an entry on witches who could foretell death. The brother's read in silence as Brenna hummed Zepplin and made pancakes. She was on such a high she didn't think anyone could bring her down. The power she'd felt course through her last night had her buzzing this morning.

"Boys," a world weary voice called from across the room. Dean and Sam looked up. Declan walked in, T-shirt untucked, shirt unbuttoned. He sat down across from Dean. "We have to talk."

Dean sighed. "It's about friggin time, man."

"You're not going to find what you need in that book," Declan said, shifting his eyes to Brenna, then back to Sam and Dean. "John's never been up against this before."

Dean's jaw set. "You knew that all along, didn't you?"

Declan nodded.

"Why did you call him then? You could have gotten him killed!"

Sam looked at his brother in surprise. The fear for their father, the worry in his voice shocked Sam. It had been Dean who had nearly died – scratch that, who had _died_ – and he was worried about what _might've_ happened to their father.

Declan ignored Dean's question and seemed to sink a bit in his chair. Sam thought he watched him grow older in front of them. "She was a druid," he said.

Brenna dropped the wooden spoon again.

"What?" Sam asked.

"She was a druid. She had sight. Just like Brenna." Declan indicated Brenna with a jerk of his head. "She fell in love with the clan chief's son. They were to be married. The clan chief's son was wounded in battle. The chief called her to heal him, promising her that no matter what, she would be safe, have a place in his home. She tried," he looked at Dean. "She failed. In his grief, the clan chief had her brought to the town square and said that they were going to cut out the power from her."

Dean winced, his left hand going to cover his right side in an answer to a sudden, fierce twinge.

"As she bled out, she cried that no one in the clan would know peace until the last druid in the Kavanagh line was dead. She said that the Kavanaghs would know pain that can be felt but not seen, and it would make them crazy. The druid's tried to save her. They failed. In her grief over the loss of her love and the betrayal by her king, she screamed and the druid's turned her into a banshee."

Sam sat very still, listening. He felt the weight of his brother against his shoulder and the energy shimmering off of Brenna across the kitchen. He knew that this was the first time she heard this story, too. "So, if all this happened… back then… why is it happening again now? And… why here?"

Declan sighed, then looked at Brenna.

"Me?" her voice trembled.

"You're from his line, girl. The clan chief. And you have the sight."

Brenna's jaw hardened and her eyes grew predatory. "You ever planning to tell me about this? Or were you going to wait until all our kin was killed off or crazy?"

"I was trying to protect you."

Brenna looked at Declan, then her eyes shifted to Dean's pale face. "You almost killed him, Da," she said softly. "Protecting me almost got him killed."

Dean said nothing. Sam, surprised, looked over at him. His eyes had clouded a bit with pain, but he was alert and watching Brenna. Sam could see him thinking, could see him turning over something, but couldn't figure out where his brother's head was at. With a decisive move, Brenna pulled the rubber band from the knot at the back of her head, her hair falling down her back in waves. She practically stomped past the table, heading for the narrow stairway.

"NO," Dean barked out.

"Yes," she said over her shoulder, not stopping.

Dean tried to get up, but couldn't get his legs under him. "Brenna, no."

One foot on the stairs, she looked over her shoulder at him, "Try to stop me, Dean," she challenged, knowing he wasn't strong enough even to stand.

Sam's eyes darted back and forth between them. "What the hell is going on?"

Dean whipped his head around. "Stop her, Sam."

"From doing what?!"

"She's going after the banshee."

"How do you know?"

Dean's chin trembled once. "Because it's what I would do."

www

Sam figured that they would be safe enough in the day. He had yet to hear of a spirit attacking during the day. Or a zombie, vampire, werewolf, wendigo… there were all kinds of reasons to fear the dark. So, when he couldn't get Brenna to open her door by pounding, finally kicking it in to reveal an empty room and open window, he didn't worry too much. When he marched back downstairs to Dean to declare he would head out after her, patting empty pockets for the Impala keys, he started to worry.

When they heard the unmistakable rumble of the Chevy's powerful engine, he panicked. Too late he realized that in the hustle and confusion of getting Dean inside and saving his life, he completely forgot to get the keys back from Brenna.

"No. Fucking. Way," Dean declared, this time succeeding in pushing himself into a standing position.

"She didn't," Sam groaned, hitting his forehead with the palm of his hand.

"Sam…"

The Impala's roar faded as it pulled away from the house and sped down the road.

"She did."

"Sam, get her back. NOW."

Sam whirled on his brother, intending on sounding off a sharp retort, but then he saw him. Dean was leaning heavily against the table, and Sam could see the shaking from the doorway. His eyes held a fierce and terrible light -- not quite pain, but more than worry. Sam shifted his eyes to Declan. "Give me your keys."

"Keys?" Declan asked, blankly.

Sam stepped up to the old man, thus preventing Dean from attempting what had immediately been written on his face. And while ripping the old man's arm off and beating him with it was suddenly high on Sam's priority list as well, he thought Dean would probably pull some stitches.

"The keys. The keys to your car."

"Oh," Declan reached into his pocket and tossed them to Sam.

He looked at Dean. "I'll be right back," he said, then ran out the door.

Dean suddenly had a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. He recalled saying those same words to Sam yesterday. And the hot pain in his side was a sharp reminder of what condition he'd returned in. He lowered himself to the chair. He would give him an hour. If he wasn't back in an hour, wounded or not, Dean was going after him.

He began to count.

www

The number grew too large.

"I need your help old man."

Declan had slipped further into melancholy since Sam had left over an hour ago. "Hey," Dean snapped his fingers in Declan's face. "You with me?"

Declan looked up as though just realizing Dean were still sitting across from him.

"I need your help."

"With what?"

"I'm going after them."

"It's not night yet," Declan said, looking around, "They have time to get back."

Dean set his jaw, cursing himself for not thinking this before Sam left. "It's night in that house."

He stood, unbuttoning his shirt. Declan gave him a nervous look. Dean rolled his eyes. "Look, I need to tape my arm down against these stitches or I'm not going to be able to move."

Declan went for the medical tape, and helped Dean ease the shirt off his shoulders. Dean pressed his arm against his side, fisting his hand over his heart. Declan wrapped the tape as snugly as Dean could bear. Dean then put the shirt back on, but left the right sleeve hanging empty. He was shaking by the time they were done and sat slowly back down.

"Now," he said, his voice trembling. "I need you to go to our room and get me some things." He told Declan where the spare sawed-off was, the rock salt, and the machete. He didn't think he could carry more than that. He didn't think he could carry that, but he was _not_ about to let Sam fall into this bitch's hands.

Declan shook his head, looking at Dean's pale face. "I can't do that, boy. You can't even lift it."

"I'll be the judge of that."

"It's not right… you got free of her… it's not right."

Dean's eyes hardened as he looked at the old man standing in front of him. He knew that if the banshee got Brenna, this man would not be able to hold out for long.

"_Listen_," he said, stressing the importance of his words as best he could. "My brother is out there. He's _my_ responsibility. Mine, no one else's. I don't care what happened yesterday. That was yesterday. I'm here now, and I'm going to get him back." He took a deep breath and stood. "Now, either help me, or get the hell out of my way."

Declan looked at Dean's green eyes, turned on his heel and left. Dean sat shakily back down, conserving his energy. He hoped like hell Declan was going to return with what he asked for, because he didn't think he could go after him. This was a one-shot deal. He either got there for Sam, or it was over.

Declan returned inside of five minutes with the weapons. Dean talked him through loading the rock salt into the sawed-off, and then had him strap the machete to his back with more medical tape.

"Now, I need a car."

Declan blanched. "I gave my keys to Sam."

"Shit."

Declan thought for a moment. "There's what's in the garage."

Dean rolled his eyes. "I've seen them. Not a one of them can run."

"The cars, no. But there are two tractors in there."

Dean went still, "You gotta be kiddin' me."

Declan shook his head.

Dean sighed. "Fine, but you're driving." He thought briefly about Brenna in the Impala. "Man, the thought of her driving my car…"

The sun reached its peak in the metallic blue sky as the tractor lumbered out of the lot and slowly down the five miles to the mill house. _I'm coming, Sammy._

_a/n: one more chapter and an epilogue to come… I look forward to hearing your thoughts… banshee battle ahoy!_


	6. Part 6: The Fight

**Disclaimer/Spoilers: **See Part 1

_a/n: Thanks so much for hanging in there with me. I hope this part of the story lives up to any expectations you might have._

Part 6

"You know you're an idiot."

"So not the time."

"Well, sorry, but when we may only have minutes more to live, I feel I have to speak my mind."

Sam flattened his lips and looked toward her voice. He couldn't see her in the inky blackness of the mill house labyrinth, but he knew what her expression would be anyway: a cocked brow and wry half grin. Just like Dean's.

"Thanks for sharing."

"You don't want to know why you're an idiot?"

"I'm not an idiot."

"Says you," her voice was a low pout. Sam could picture her eyes narrowing and her lip pushing out like a child's.

They were sitting side-by-side on the cold, damp floor of the mill house basement room, just to the left of the ladder. Brenna was much smaller than Sam, and her shoulder rested against his left bicep. When she'd occasionally twist her neck to ease the sore muscles, he could feel the brush of her head against his shoulder. He'd caught up with her just as she was attempting unsuccessfully to jam the heavy wooden door shut behind her so that no one could follow her in. He'd snaked his arm in, grasping hers, and attempted to pull her back out with him.

Suddenly, the vertigo that always hit him just before the blinding headache of a vision swam through his sense and he released her arm, stumbling into the mill house entry room. Brenna had sprinted away from him with a muttered oath, and Sam sank to his knees. _Damn, she had put a whammy on Dean,_ he thought. The vertigo passed almost as soon as her running feet were out of earshot. Sam swore, pushed himself to his feet, and followed her into the utter blackness.

Because he had planned on dragging her stubborn self back to the house well before they entered the mill house, Sam hadn't brought his flashlight. The only weapon he had was Dean's silver .45 he'd thought to grab at the last minute tucked into the back waistband of his jeans. He had no idea what Brenna had brought with her. _Way to go, Sam,_ he thought. _Dean would justifiably beat your ass if he knew._

The darkness they sat in was suffocating. It was almost as if the stone walls exuded a sense of fear and foreboding. They had held the spirit of a woman existing only on rage, pain, and betrayal for so long those emotions echoed off the stones, twisted in the darkness, and turned into a palpable terror. Sam tried to keep his breathing deep and even so that he didn't give Brenna a reason to worry. He almost wanted her to start talking again just to have something to hear besides the deafening silence. He felt her do the neck stretch again.

"You shouldn't have come after me, Sam," she said softly.

"I had to."

"Why, because Dean told you to?"

_Yes._ "No – because you were going to get yourself killed."

He heard her huff out a breath. "Well, swell, now I'm going to get both of us killed."

After stumbling down the long corridor in the black, Brenna had fallen down the large hole left by the open trap door he and Dean had used to escape the day before. Sam had heard her cry of surprise and then the low curse when she landed. His hunter instincts had served him well as he cautiously felt his way along the corridor until he, too, found the trap door. He called her name and when she responded, he maneuvered himself down the ladder – which was all but invisible in the dark.

If her ankle wasn't broken, it was damn close. He'd been able to straighten her leg by touch, but unable to see the extent of her injury had been hesitant to do anything else. He'd leaned back against the wall next to her for a moment to think. He was usually a mobile thinker – if not physically moving, then _doing_ something…reading, surfing the Internet, writing down lists... Dean was the one who would go eerily still. And Dean was also the one who usually got them out of situations such as this.

"Here's what we're going to do," Sam said, taking a breath, and feeling in the dark for Brenna's hand. "I'm going to carry you out of here and you're _not_ going to argue with me."

Brenna was silent for a moment. "Sam, I had to."

Sam shook his head, knowing she couldn't see him. "No, no you didn't."

Her voice lost its apology. "Yes, yes I did. I did this, Sam. It's happening because of me. All of it."

Sam ignored the recognition that echoed from somewhere inside of him at that sentiment. He had as much said the same words to Dean about the situation they were in, about their mom's death, about the fact that his brother had never really had a life. He could practically hear Dean's adamant rumble of denial in his head.

"That's bullshit and you know it. You weren't even born for half the cars in the garage. And I'm still not convinced that Declan doesn't know more than he's saying."

"You heard him; I'm from the clan chief's line."

"I heard what he said," Sam grumbled. "But what concerns me is what he hasn't said. You just going to take him at his word?"

"He's my family, Sam."

Sam sighed, knowing what she meant. Family, really, was it. They were your last line of defense, your first enemy, your only friend. Family knew all the buttons and just the right order to push them. Family cursed you, saved you, betrayed you, protected you, and if you were really lucky, loved you completely without the necessity of complete understanding.

"I know. And I know why you thought you had to come," he thought about what Dean had said. _Because it's what I would have done._ "I know you thought you could do something to stop her. But sacrificing yourself is not the way to go."

He felt Brenna shrug. "Your brother is willing to do it, and you don't have anything to say about that."

He stiffened at her casual mention of Dean. "What are you talking about?"

"Sam, you of all people should know this. He would lay his life down if he knew it would save someone – especially you."

Sam sat with that a moment.

"But he would die before he'd let someone do the same for him," she finished softly. "That's why I had to come."

"What, you're protecting Dean now?"

She sighed and Sam suddenly felt her weight against his shoulder. "I'm trying."

Sam opened his mouth to say something, but closed his with an audible click. He suddenly realized that he could see his legs stretched out before him – dimly, but he could see them. He looked over at Brenna, and saw her eyes had gone predatory and she was staring at something in the distance over Sam's shoulder. Cold fear wrapping around his heart, Sam slowly turned his head to see the rag-shrouded figure standing in the doorway of the far room – the room where he'd found Dean. Her mouth open in a silent scream, her skin stretched taunt, and her dead light brightening the utter darkness. At first she stood and they stared. Then she began to move toward them.

"Oh shit," Brenna muttered.

"We are in serious trouble," Sam said.

www

Tractors were not passenger vehicles. Knowing that he would be unable to control the wheel of the ungainly machine, Dean had insisted that Declan drive and positioned himself to the right of the seat, bracing himself with his left hand and leg against the wheel base. Even with his right arm taped firmly against his wounded side, supporting it, Dean felt every bounce, every shudder of the tractor like a knife in his side. After one particularly hard jolt, he knew stitches in his shoulder pulled loose and he couldn't help the cry of pain that escaped.

Declan hadn't looked at him since hauling him onto the tractor for the slow ride to the mill house. He knew Dean was already in bad shape, and this ride was doing nothing to help him. But one look in the young hunter's eyes had stilled any arguments Declan had been considering tossing out. He was going after his brother if he had to walk the whole long way. Declan knew he'd never make it… and, wounded or not, this boy was his last best chance of saving Brenna.

They rolled to an ungraceful, lurching stop next to Declan's car, and behind the Impala. Dean gasped as he tried to shield his broken body from the unexpected shift. Declan's shoulder's slumped as he turned off the engine. He rolled his eyes to look at Dean. The hunter's face was pale, his skin pulled in taunt lines of pain around his eyes and mouth, but his eyes held a unique light – one that Declan had only ever seen once before in his life. During his tour. Soldiers in battle were brothers born in fire and pain and strife and survival. They would die and kill for each other without hesitation. This is what he saw in Dean Winchester when it came to Sam. And it was made all the more potent by the love that was evident between the brothers.

"Need a hand down?"

"I got it."

Dean pulled in a breath to steel himself and stepped down from the tractor. His knees nearly buckled when his boots hit the dry earth, but he held onto the tractor until he had his balance. He could feel the machete still in place against his back and he reached back up on the tractor seat to retrieve the rock salt filled sawed-off.

"Here."

Dean lifted his head, eyebrow cocked in a question, at Declan's voice. He saw his small black flashlight in the man's hands.

"You said it was night inside. Thought this could help."

Dean barely acknowledged him, merely lifting his chin and instinctively reached for the light. With his left hand. Which still held the gun.

"Damn," he muttered.

"Hand it over," Declan said.

"Sorry, man, you can't – "

"I ain't no hero, boy. I just have an idea."

Dean tilted his head in a question, then handed him the gun. Declan twisted on the light, positioned it in the divot between the barrels, and wrapped the last of the medical tape around it to hold it in place. He then handed the gun back to Dean.

"Nice," Dean nodded appreciatively.

Dean turned from the tractor and walked toward the back door he and Sam had used. He heard Declan's whispered, "Good luck, boy," just before he walked out of earshot. He couldn't help but wonder at the fact that though the crime scene tape was still wrapped around the site, it appeared that no one had returned since they got the sheriff's wife down from the tree.

He entered the small room and swept the light around. He instantly recalled Sam's vision the minute his brother had stepped into this room. He tried to stifle a shiver and moved further into the mill house. He felt as though he were walking through water. He couldn't see anything outside of the cone of light provided by his flashlight, and it was hard to breathe. He wanted to call out for Sam, but something held him in check. His approach was cautious, but deliberate, and he found himself strangely missing the intense connection he'd felt to his brother the last time he'd been here.

Even though it had killed him to hold that pain away from Sam, knowing that Sam knew what was happening to him had been an odd solace. And hearing his brother's low hum of Metallica had given him the strength to fight on a little longer. Now, though, Sam was somewhere in the depths of this darkness with a witch and a banshee, and Dean never felt more alone.

He pressed that thought back, not willing to let his weakened body give him permission to lower his defenses, his wall, his resilience. He had to be tough, to be the soldier he was trained to be, to _stand_ it to get Sam back. One more step into the darkness, one more sweep of the light, a little bit closer to Sam.

The scream literally shook him and it took him a moment to realize that it wasn't the banshee's scream he heard, but Brenna. It was a cry of pain and terror and he felt it deep in his wounded side. As the scream faded, he felt his energy slowly leave him, as though it were tied to her, as though _she_ were leaving him. He stumbled and fell against the nearest wall, his shoulder sliding a bit on the wet moss. He raised the gun light with a shaking arm, and saw the trap door in the distance.

That _had_ to be right. Sam had to be there. All he had to do was figure out how to get down that ladder with one hand and not drop the shotgun. He blinked hard, shaking the gun light once as the light seemed to fade. When his head swam, he realized it wasn't the light that was fading, it was him. He leaned his head back against the wall and took a deep breath. _Fight this, Dean, _he scolded himself. His knees buckled and he sank down the wall, his side protesting when he hit the floor in a heap.

"Sam," he said weakly.

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As the banshee glided closer to them in silent ghostly strides, Sam pushed himself to his feet with his hands crawling up the wall behind him. He took one step to put himself between Brenna and the banshee when he heard Brenna suddenly gasp. He looked down at her predatory eyes and realized a second too late what she was trying to do.

As the scream tore from her throat, her head fell to the side and her back arched. She looked like someone had a large fist wrapped around her body and had started to squeeze. Decisively turning from the banshee, Sam crouched down and wrapped his large hands around her shoulders, bringing her to a sitting position. Her head lulled backwards.

"Brenna, what the hell do you think you're doing? Get… out of her mind!" he cried out, shaking her once.

"Oh, Jesus, Sam," she moaned, the corners of her mouth crinkling downward in a painful frown. Her eyes were wide and darted back and forth in panic. "Her pain…it's…it's terrible." Her back arched again as another scream tore from her throat.

"Brenna!" Sam shook her, twice. "Stop it. Stop it!"

Brenna's head snapped back up and she reached up awkwardly to grab at Sam's shoulders. "Oh, shit. Sam, we were wrong… we were wrong… God she's so mad at him…" Brenna had felt the banshee's rage – her terror at being tortured, her anger at being betrayed, and her sudden wrath for the person who had escaped her curse.

"What? What are you talking about?"

"She's not after me anymore," Brenna choked out. With those words, the room plunged into complete darkness. Their hands tightening instinctively on each other, Sam and Brenna drew closer out of defense from the black.

"Who is she after," Sam asked, his voice ragged, already knowing the answer but praying he was wrong.

"Dean."

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Brenna's second scream shot through Dean like a shot of adrenalin. He used the back of his left arm as leverage and forced himself to his feet. His side was on fire and he could feel something warm and wet running down his side and soaking through his bandages to his arm. The trap door was several feet away. He took one step away from the wall, then was suddenly aware that the room was illuminated by more than just the white light taped to his gun. This time, he heard her breath.

He whirled around and found himself once again faced by the banshee. She stood about five feet from him, staring with her empty eyes. Dean swallowed, "Honey, you should have taken the hint when I didn't call you back."

He didn't even see her move. One minute he was staring her down, trying to figure out his next move and the next he was in the air. When his body hit the wall, he cried out. His side felt like a glass bulb had shattered beneath his skin. His head bounced violently off of the stone and he saw stars.

He landed in a heap, curling in on his side in an instinctive move to protect his wounds. He lifted his eyes and saw that the banshee was inches from his face. Blood from his forehead ran freely and dripped into his eye. Her face was terrible, and a sudden helpless feeling rolled over Dean. He realized how close he was to losing it when the word _please_ almost escaped his lips.

_Listen to me, Son. She is evil. You do your job, you hear me? Do. Your. Job._

Dean blinked. John's voice had been so clear in his head it was as though his dad were standing next to him. He fisted his left hand as the banshee continued her chilling survey of his battered face. It suddenly occurred to him that he shouldn't be able to make a fist – he should have a gun in that hand. Dammit…where the hell was the sawed-off?

Dean felt the edge of consciousness slipping closer… he'd stared death in the face before. He'd felt its cold greedy hands on his head, had felt the vacuum of want death had used to pull his will, his soul, his life from him. He'd almost given up that time. He'd been so tired, he'd hurt so bad, and he'd almost let death win. Almost. But then he'd thought of Sam, alone – or worse, with their Dad without him – and he'd found himself pushing back. Sam was his reason when nothing else mattered.

So he stared back at the banshee's empty eyes. He put all of his will into that stare, forcing the dreaded harbinger of death to face his rage, his pain, his fears, his hope, his light, his life. To his complete amazement, the banshee pulled away. She seemed to pause a moment, then lifted her face. Dean braced himself for the effects of her scream, when suddenly she was gone.

"Yeah, that's what I THOUGHT!" he yelled to the darkness.

He caught sight of the gun out of the corner of his eye. He slowly pulled himself across the stone floor the few feet and bridged the gap. The journey of that few feet felt like it took years. As his hand wrapped around the barrel of the gun a sudden burst of panic slammed into him. His breath sped up and he felt the gun tremble in his hand. The panic turned quickly to anger and…an almost righteous indignation. He blinked.

He didn't understand at first. Then, when the anger flared hot and turned to fear, he realized what – or rather who -- he was feeling.

"God, Sammy," he choked out, shuddering as he pulled the gun against his chest. He knew his mistake then. _It's all I see when I look at you. I look at your eyes and you don't reflect back at me – it's just your Dad and Sam._ When he'd forced the banshee to see him, he'd shown her Sam. He didn't know why he wasn't feeling Sam's physical pain…didn't know if Sam were aware of the connection…but Sam was scared, that much he knew. Then he heard it. One word echoing in his mind. _Dean_.

He'd promised. He'd _promised_ Sam that nothing bad was going to happen to him while he was around. Hearing the unmistakable sound of gunfire behind him, he pushed himself to his feet, swaying for a moment, and turned to make the arduous journey to the trap door.

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Sam had just succeeded in getting Brenna to her feet, supporting her wounded ankle as best he could in the pitch black, and had gotten both of them to the base of the ladder when the dead light once again illuminated the room behind him. After a moment of complete panic, Sam pulled the .45 from his waistband, turned, and fired in one fluid motion. As the bullets slammed into the banshee, Sam felt his lip curl in anger.

"That's for my brother, you bitch," he growled.

"Sam?"

"Brenna, get up the ladder."

"I – I…"

"Go. NOW!"

Brenna felt in the darkness for the wrung, her left ankle hanging limply and started to pull herself up. Daring a look over her shoulder, she saw Sam begin to advance on the banshee. _What the hell?_ She thought. _What is he doing?! The bullets won't kill her…_

Sometimes in moments of complete terror we are left defenseless and other times we see the world very clearly. For Brenna, this was a moment of utter clarity. She heard murmurs of Gaelic in her head, verses of old spells spoken in voices long since dead. She could see by the dead light of the banshee that Sam wasn't stopping. It was as though he'd been pushed past logic and moved straight into vengeance. When the chamber clicked empty, and the banshee paused in her retreat, Brenna gasped.

The banshee's nails ripped through Sam's shirt and dug furrows into the flesh of his arm and chest as she backhanded him across the room. He hit the wall with a terrible force and his body slumped like a rag doll on the floor. The banshee, ignoring Brenna completely, advanced on him. Brenna took a breath, allowing the murmurs in her head to grow in volume.

Sam blinked hard. His ears were ringing and even in the dim light from the banshee he could tell black spots were sifting across his vision. His arm and chest burned. He shook his head to clear the cobwebs and looked up, seeing the banshee move closer to him. God but she pissed him off. He pushed himself into a sitting position, then to his feet. She wanted Dean, Brenna had said.

"You're not going to have him," he growled out. Dean would rather die than have someone – someone _else_ – sacrifice their life for him. Sam knew this. He also knew that if that someone also happened to be his brother, it would kill him. Sam had no intention of dying, but if it kept the banshee's curse from hurting Dean, he was willing to try anything.

"You killed him once. I'm not going to let you do it again," with that oath, Sam did the only thing left to him. He backhanded her with the barrel of the gun. The banshee's head whipped back and to the left. Her scream was brutal, but Sam had been expecting it. When she lifted her head to release the nerve-shattering wail, he barreled into her, wrapping his arms around her and brought her to the floor. Truth be told, he was completely surprised to find that she was in fact corporeal. Even though her nails had marked him, and even though their bullets had hit her, he still half expected to fly through her and land on the floor.

Their impact, therefore, drove the air from his lungs, and he was caught off guard when she grabbed his hair and threw him. He hit the wall with the flat of his back and before he could catch his breath, she was on him, her cold, brittle fingers wrapping around his throat with an impossible strength. His lungs screamed at him, his head swam. He clawed ineffectively at her fingers, but felt himself losing his tenuous hold to consciousness.

He had one thought clear in his head…_Dean_.

Then, through the fog in his head, he heard someone murmuring... a deep voice full of power.

"…_Imeacht gan teacht ort... Titim gan éirí ort…"_

The banshee's grip loosened as the words continued. Sam pulled harder against her boney fingers. With another abbreviated wail, the banshee released him and was gone. Sam rubbed his bruised neck, dragging in huge gulps of air, trying desperately to keep the internal darkness at bay. They were once again plunged into pitch and Sam tried to call out Brenna's name. His throat worked convulsively to help him pull air in. He knew he had to get to Brenna, but he was completely turned around. He had no idea which direction the ladder was in.

The air seemed to press in on him. He was very aware of the fact that they were in the basement of the mill house. His skin began to crawl with imagined insects, and he forced himself to not squirm. Not that anyone would see him; just that giving in to an irrational fear when there were plenty of real things to fear was not how a Winchester panicked. Not that Winchesters panicked, of course. However, he felt panic creeping in when he turned his head and realized that no matter where he looked or how wide his eyes were, everything was dark, silent, and cold. When he felt the hand on his right leg, just above the ankle, he nearly bit his tongue in half to keep from screaming.

"Sam?" Brenna's voice sounded young and scared…not at all the voice of the druid witch he'd heard moments before. "You okay?" _Was I fast enough?_

"Yeah," he croaked out. "What was that?" He winced and continued to rub his throat.

"Gaelic curse. Not very powerful, but… it was all I could do…"

"It was enough," Sam rasped out.

"We need to get you out of here," Brenna said, remembering the sight of the banshee tearing into Sam's chest and arm.

"Dean," Sam said, referring to her earlier comment.

Brenna swallowed, "I'm so sorry, Sam." She curled her fingers into fists in his denim pant leg. "She must have been at this so long that it stopped being about getting back at all the Kavanaghs. When…when I read her, she could have cared less about me."

Sam swallowed painfully, then took a breath. "If she's after him, that's where she is…"

"Well, he certainly pissed her off by eluding the curse," Brenna sighed, running her hands carefully up Sam's chest to check on the gashes. She couldn't feel much blood and breathed a sigh of relief. Remembering Dean, she'd feared the worse.

"He does have a way with people," Sam quipped, using the wall behind him to push himself to his feet, then helped Brenna to stand. She had to lean on him as putting weight on her ankle was out of the question. They began to feel their way carefully along the wall. After a few moments, they found the ladder. Sam help Brenna into position and pushed her up with his shoulder, much the same way he'd done to Dean just the night before.

When Brenna breached the top of the opening, she turned and reached down for Sam. She felt him grab her hand and as his face came closer to hers she suddenly registered that she could see him. With a gasp, she looked up just as Sam leveled himself out of the opening.

"Aw no," she whispered, her eyes pinned to the terrible site of the banshee, simply standing on the other side of the opening, waiting for them. As though she had calculated the best way to break their spirits. As though she'd known that torture was about more than physical pain. Sam stood quickly, pulling Brenna with him and wrapped her into his arms, preparing to run with her or protect her from the banshee's wrath as long as he could.

"Sam! DROP!"

The roar was once again the sweetest sound Sam had ever heard. The command in it was unmistakable. Without thinking he tucked Brenna under him and dropped to the ground. The roar of the sawed-off shotgun echoed through the air over their heads. Sam heard the banshee scream and cautiously lifted his head.

Dean stood on the other side of them like an avenging angel. He held the sawed off in his left hand, blood ran down the left side of his face, and Sam saw more blood on the right side of his shirt from his previous wounds. His right sleeve hung empty. As Sam watched, Dean pressed his lips together and his eyes narrowed slightly, but they never left his prey. He momentarily lowered the sawed-off, held it against his leg to pull back the hammers, then raised it again with his left hand and fired – first one barrel, then the other.

"Go, Sam!" Dean ordered, his eyes momentarily flicking down to meet his brother's. Sam found it hard to see Dean's clearly with the light from the flashlight taped to the gun throwing his brother's face into shadow. But he didn't need to see his eyes now to know… he'd seen them before… three times. _Rage. Pain. Fear. Desperation. Sorrow. _"GO, Sam, get her out of here."

Sam trembled as Dean raised the sawed-off again. The banshee had retreated as the sting of the rock salt blasted into her, but she kept coming back. Sam scrambled to his feet, pulling Brenna with him. He started to run towards Dean, but Brenna's cry of pain brought him up short. He'd forgotten about her ankle. Without a word, he picked her up and slung her over his broad shoulder. He turned to Dean, who was still focused on the banshee. Sam hesitated next to him, and Dean glanced over once, his face set in fierce determination.

"I'll come back for you, Dean," he said, then took off down the pitch black corridor, navigating by memory. He heard Dean fire again when he reached the entry room. He bent low and put Brenna on the ground. He wasn't going to even bother to check if she was okay, but she put a hand on his arm, stopping him. His desperation to get back to Dean nearly swamped him.

Suddenly, he heard Dean roar, "Sam, keep going! Don't look back! Don't come back for me!" The sawed-off cracked again and the banshee screamed.

The fear for Dean almost doubled him over. He reached out with one hand and wrenched the heavy door open for Brenna. He spared her a brief glance. She nodded, "Get him back."

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When Sam had passed him, Brenna in his arms, and promised to return, Dean had felt the strength of his will. He had felt Sam decide he was ready to die for his brother. He had felt Sam choose him. It was the most wonderful feeling in the world. It was also the most terrible. Because he couldn't let it happen. If this was the evil that ended him, he was not about to let his brother go down with him. The banshee came at him again. Dean reloaded again, one-handed, then raised the gun and fired.

Out of nowhere it seemed, he suddenly wished that his Dad was there. For a moment, he just wanted to let John be the one that decided what happened, that took charge, the fired the last bullet out of the last gun. For a moment he wanted to know what it was like to be a kid and know that Dad would take care of everything and make everything okay. The moment passed and he felt ashamed of his own weakness.

Then on the heels of his own weakness, he felt Sam's desperation acutely. He suddenly knew that if he didn't do something – do it _now_ – he would lose Sam to the banshee. He called back to Sam to keep going, and put the last rounds of rock salt into the barrels. So far, all they had done was cause the banshee to scream in pain and back up a few paces, but that was the right direction at least. He felt his knees tremble with exhaustion; they hit the stone floor with a jarring impact. He saw the banshee advance beyond the trap door, coming closer. He emptied his mind of everything – Sam, Dad, Brenna, the hunt, joy, love, sorrow, want, desire, fear, pain. He would not let her see anything but death in his eyes.

The banshee raised her hand to strike and he fired once more. She screamed and he dropped to the ground. He had one last desperate attempt to destroy her. He reached behind him to pull the machete from its hiding place…but found nothing. No knife. No more weapons. It must have come lose when he hit that wall, he thought with despair. As though sensing his complete helplessness, the banshee advanced. Dean pushed himself to his knees, determined to face her with as much fight and fire as he could muster. She wailed again and Dean could almost swear he heard glee in the shrillness of the scream.

As she lifted her hand again to strike, Dean felt a presence behind him. A distinctly _Sam_-like presence. As though choreographed with precision, Dean ducked his head and rolled his shoulders low from left to right. Sam's powerful swing of the lost machete effectively removed the banshee's head from her shoulders with a sound like a blade slicing through a ream of paper. Dean cautiously straightened, instinctively avoiding Sam's follow through with the machete.

The sudden silence was shocking. The flashlight pointed uselessly at the floor, the gun hanging limply from Dean's left hand. Through the muted glow of the white light, the brothers could see the banshee's body begin to shrivel. Her hands curled in and retreated into the opening of the rag dress. Her feet turned in on themselves like atrophied muscles. They couldn't see where the head ended up. Both were panting from their exertions. Dean broke the silence first, not looking away from the wasted body of the banshee.

"Dude. You totally Sosa'd that bitch."

Sam licked his lips. "Here I always thought I was better at soccer," he panted.

Dean started to turn his head to look at his brother. He never made it. The blood loss, the exhaustion, the fear, and the effort to _make it right_ hit him like a freight train. He heard Sam say his name as if from a distance as he collapsed into the waiting arms of complete darkness.

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_a/n: Gaelic translations: **Imeacht gan teacht ort **May you leave without returning. **Titim gan éirí ort.** May you fall without rising._

_Curses should be used with great caution._

_I'm still getting the hang of chapter size, so I split this up. Lesson learned? Never state how long a story is going to be when you're still writing it…The rest of the story is written. I simply need to do whatever self-edit I can, then I'll post it. Happy reading!_


	7. Part 7: Brothers

**Disclaimer/Spoilers: **See Part 1

_a/n: I hope you enjoy the read. The story needed a bit more angst before the end. I thought. Maybe I'm wrong. It's happened before. And I'll shut up now._

Part 7

Brenna used her right leg and arms to crawl from the sprawl Sam had dropped her in to the door he'd wrenched open for her. The sun was just setting, turning the western horizon a brilliant gold while dark blues and pinks faded and bled into the darkening night sky. She pulled herself out of the mill house and rested in the dirt, her back against the building. The trembling began gradually until her teeth were chattering and she had to wrap her arms around herself to keep from bouncing against the outer wall of the mill house.

_Your fault_, she told herself. _You had to go off, without a plan, without thinking, expecting your power to save you…_

She tried to reach out to Dean, but she couldn't see him. She couldn't see Sam. She was as blind in her power as she had been in the utter darkness of the mill house. Giving in to exhaustion and fear, she let the hot tears that had been building behind her eyes fall down her cheeks. She moved her hands from her arms to the back of her neck, dropping her head low. As her fingers dug into the tight muscles in her neck, scolding, punishing, she was reminded of what she'd had tattooed there so long ago. _Creideamh_. Faith. It had been faith that had brought Dean back. Her faith that she could do it, Sam's faith in Dean's will to live.

If faith had saved him then, maybe a little more wouldn't hurt now. She took a deep breath and started to pray the only thing she could think of: the Hail Mary.

"Sé do bheatha, a Mhuire, atá lán de ghrásta, Tá an Tiarna leat. Is beannaithe thú idir mná, Agus is beannaithe toradh do bhroinne, Íosa. A Naomh-Mhuire, a Mháthair Dé, guigh orainn na peacaigh, anois, agus ar uair ár mbáis. Amen."

"Brenna?"

She opened her eyes to see Declan standing in front of her, gripping one hand in the other, a look of complete disbelief on his face.

"Da?"

"He did it. I didn't think he could, but he did it," Declan whispered as he dropped to his knees in front of her, his hands gently touching the top of her head, then cupping her cheek.

"What are you doing here?"

"I brought Dean."

Brenna's eyebrows pulled together. "Wait, what?"

"He insisted, I couldn't stop him, girl. Nothing could have."

"B-but… you let him come in here, knowing how hurt he was, by himself?"

Declan raised an eyebrow. "He didn't give me much choice."

Brenna swallowed. On one hand she was so happy to see him she almost started crying again. On the other hand, he had allowed Dean, who had barely been able to stand, to come in after them on his own. And though she could sympathize with going up against the will of a Winchester, the point was _she_ had been in there.

"Why didn't you come after _me_, Da?"

Declan had the grace to look ashamed. "I couldn't let her have us, child," he said softly. His work-roughened thumb rubbed at the dirt marring her soft cheek. "She'd gotten so close this time. If it hadn't been for…"

He stopped abruptly and dropped his hand. And suddenly Brenna knew. She knew that Sam had been right – Declan was hiding something. Before he could move to stop her, Brenna swung her hand up and gripped his face, looking into him as she never had looked before. Images from hundreds of years ago, of battle and flame, of swords and blood, filled her mind and made her gasp. She felt Declan try to back away from her, but she knew her power held him fast.

She could see into his heart, his soul, his memory and what she saw made her stomach clench and her lungs freeze. She saw a young, beautiful woman screaming in unimaginable pain, her arms tied above her head, a knife glinting in firelight being stabbed into her. She saw the man who wielded that knife -- he could be Declan save for a horrible scar that sliced through one eye and a wild beard that was divided with multiple braids. She saw a young man in an old Porsche Boxer, then she saw the same man strung up by his wrists, head handing low, bleeding. She saw the same scene repeat over and over as the years passed in Declan's memory.

She saw Declan chanting in Gaelic, tossing incense over the doorway. She saw him mark her own forehead with a cross as he mumbled prayers she couldn't hear and didn't want to understand. She saw her grandfather, her mentor, her comforter, her punisher, her betrayer. The images melded together, swam up, and then rested in the haunted eyes that now blinked balefully at her, begging her to understand.

"It was you," she breathed as she dropped her hand. "_You_ are the descendant of the clan chief. All this time she's been looking for you."

Declan swallowed. "Brenna –" he started.

"Did you deflect her from us and toward Dean? Did you send her after him?"

"She was getting so close to you – if she got you, she would have killed us both. And then she…she would win. The curse would never be broken."

"All this time… you let these boys go into danger and all this time you knew…"

"Brenna, it's their job. It's what they do!"

"Bullshit," Brenna shoved him away, pushing herself to a standing position, favoring her left ankle. Declan's eyes grew wide as he looked at her. She looked down at her shirt and saw the blood smeared there. "It's not mine," she said, her heart clenching for Sam. "It's Sam's."

"Is he…"

"He wasn't when he left me, but he went back in after his brother," Brenna said, thinking of Dean standing in the dark corridor, his pale face lit from the dead light of the banshee, listing to one side, but with a terrible determination in his eyes. He had been magnificent. "He went back in there…"

She looked up at Declan. "We have to go back in for them. We can't just leave them there."

"Brenna," Declan began, looking down at her swollen ankle and then back up at her face.

"There are guns in the Impala. I think. Help me over there."

"How are you going to get in?"

She lifted an eyebrow. "I have the keys," she reminded him.

Still, he hesitated. Her anger at him flashed hot and fierce. With a low growl, she pushed herself away from the wall of the house and tried to hobble around the house to the car. The pain in her ankle made her whimper through her anger. She heard Declan actually sigh before he reached out to her. As his fingers closed on her bicep, she whipped her head around and turned the full-force of her predatory eyes on him. He dropped her arm in surprise.

"Don't. You. Touch. Me," she spat at him, making her way slowly and painfully to the trunk. Declan followed at a distance. He tried to get her to speak to him twice more by saying her name pleadingly, but she ignored him. She just hoped that the boys hadn't unloaded all of their weapons in the room – there had been quite a lot in there.

She reached the Impala, dug the keys from her pocket, opened the trunk and popped up the floor to reveal the weapon compartment, thankful that she'd watched them unload the guns the day they'd arrived. Many were indeed missing, but there was still a rifle, a hand gun, and two knives along with bullets. Best of all, there was a large flashlight. She loaded the rifle, and grabbed the flashlight, slamming the trunk shut at she turned.

Declan tried one last time. "Girl, you have to understand. I did it for us. I did it to save us. I knew those boys could handle whatever came after them. Their father raised them that way. It's their…purpose."

Brenna looked at him like he was a particularly nasty bug she'd like to squish under her shoes. "You lied to me. You betrayed me. You purposely put them in danger, and you got Dean _killed._ No wonder you had to talk me through saving him. You couldn't have lived with your guilt otherwise."

"That was never supposed to happen."

"But it did. And they're still in there. With her. Because of you," she hefted the rifle and stepped around him, gingerly hobbling toward the house. Declan stepped in front of her once more.

"Goddammit," she yelled. "Either help me or get out of my way!"

Declan blinked at Dean's words coming from Brenna's mouth. He reached out and took the rifle from her, then turned toward the house, offering her his arm as a support.

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When Dean had crumpled to the ground, Sam's world began to move in slow motion. Dean had fallen on top of the light taped to the gun, so the corridor was plunged into complete darkness once more. Sam dropped to his knees and crawled to his brother's prone form. He rested a trembling hand on Dean's back, praying for the movement of breath. When he couldn't tell through his own shaking, he felt up the length of his brother's body to his neck. The pulse was strong, albeit a bit rapid. Sam went weak with relief.

He grabbed Dean's shoulders and rolled his brother over onto his back, pulling him gently into his lap. Dean's collapse had apparently broken the flashlight as even with it was uncovered they were in the dark. Sam ran his fingers over Dean's face carefully, feeling for the source of the blood he'd seen flowing down his brother's face. There was a gash just below his hairline. Sam also knew that his stitches must've pulled loose, too, as he'd seen the blood on the green shirt he'd give Dean that morning. He felt the empty sleeve with confusion, then realized that Dean had taped his right arm against his side as a support.

His brother's breathing hitched painfully as Sam's explorations accidentally touched the wound on his side.

"Sorry, sorry," Sam whispered. He wrapped his arm around Dean's shoulders tighter, curling his own aching body over his brothers as if protecting him from the dark. His forehead found the top of Dean's soft hair and he rested it there, holding him tighter. God, this had been too damn close. He'd been so close to losing him again. He shivered, and felt the hot tears press against the back of his eyes. He shifted his head slightly so that his nose and mouth were pressed into Dean's hair.

He felt a tremor shift through Dean as a pain-filled moan escaped.

"It's okay," Sam soothed against Dean's hair. "I've got you now. You don't have to fight anymore, Dean. I've got you."

He felt Dean relax slightly, and realized what he'd said. Of course Dean had to fight. His life was about fighting, a constant struggle, a never ending battle. He needed the fight to stay alive. It was so damn unfair. Sam scrunched his eyes against the tears, willing them not to spill. Dean would never get two years off, a chance at a normal life, a pretty girlfriend who never knew how he'd grown up.

"Come on back to me, man," Sam whispered, and his voice broke. "I need you here, okay?"

Dean shifted slightly, like he was trying to work his way up through a deep pool. His breathing became more rapid and he groaned again, a gut clenching groan of real pain. Sam couldn't stop them. The tears fell from his eyes and into his brother's hair, running down Dean's face to mix with the blood.

"I didn't mean for you not to fight, big brother. You come on back to me – don't let her get you now. Not now after we've already won. Please," Sam's breath hitched at the last word. "I have something to tell you, Dean. Something you need to hear. But I want to know you hear me. 'Cause it's all true…"

He felt Dean shudder against a choking breath and he pulled his head up off of his brother's hair. "Dean?"

He heard another strangled breath, and ran his hands over Dean's face. The blood from his head wound was running down his face and with the angle that Sam held him, it was pooling in his mouth.

"Oh, God," Sam said carefully shifting Dean to the left so that the blood could run out of his mouth. "There you go, that's it," he encouraged as Dean began to cough and he heard him spitting the blood from his mouth.

Dean became aware with a sudden, intense pain in his side as he coughed out the blood from his mouth. He drug a large breath into his lungs and coughed again. He could taste salt on his lips – blood wasn't salty… tears? Was he crying? He coughed once more and realized suddenly that Sam's arms were around him, holding him, supporting him. He knew then that they were Sam's tears.

"Sam?"

"I'm here, Dean. I got you," Sam pulled Dean back up against him, hoping the closeness would ease the shaking.

"Am…am I blind?" Dean's voice was thick from the blood that had pooled in his throat.

"No, you broke the flashlight when you fainted," Sam said, purposely using that word to get a rise out of his brother.

It worked. "Dude. I did _not_ faint."

"Really? Then what was that nosedive you pulled off after we wasted the banshee called?"

Dean pulled in another breath, and coughed. "It's called friggin' blood loss, man."

"Ah."

"You okay, Sammy?"

"I'll be fine," Sam said softly. Knowing Dean would see the slashes eventually anyway and would ream him for not telling him about them, he continued, "She caught me a good one back there, but they're not deep. They already stopped bleeding."

"Is Brenna okay?"

Sam smiled slightly in the dark. "She's gonna be fine. She fell down the trap door and hurt her ankle. She was plenty pissed about it, let me tell you."

Sam felt Dean ease his head back against his chest. "I'm sorry."

Sam started in surprise, "For…what?" Dean had saved them…what could he possibly have to apologize for?

"I sent her to you. The banshee," his voice was barely a whisper, but in the pressing confines of the pitch black, Sam thought he could hear his brother's eyelashes sweep his face each time he blinked.

"What do you mean?"

"I tried to… stare her down. Show her the real me, y'know? Scare her I guess."

"You tried to _scare_ a banshee?" Sam asked in wonder.

"I was pretty desperate, Sam."

"What's that got to do with me?"

"She… she saw you. She went after you, and… I could feel you."

Sam was immediately reminded of Brenna's words to him just yesterday_, I look at Dean and I see you. I see John. I see…fire, if that makes sense. But I don't see Dean. It's like…to Dean…he doesn't exist without you_.

"What do you mean you could feel me?" Like Dean needed to feel any more pain at the moment, he thought.

"I could tell when you were angry, or afraid. I could tell when you were going to come back for me…" Dean paused and hissed against a sudden pain in his side. His next words were strained against that pain, "I couldn't let her take you, Sam…"

Sam tightened his grip on Dean's shoulders, once again resting his forehead against Dean's hair. He felt his brother tense, but he didn't say anything, didn't pull away. Maybe Dean needed the catharsis of contact as much as Sam did in that moment. And the dark hid all.

"You matter to me," Sam said.

"What?" Dean's voice was a weak tangle of confusion.

"I just wanted you to hear that. I think you know it, but I need you to hear it."

"For God's sake, Sam."

"Shut up and listen to me. He left you. I left you. But I'm not leaving you again."

Dean went still.

"Even if we're not actually _together_, I won't leave you. You hear me?"

Sam felt Dean's quick nod. He still said nothing. If Sam didn't know any better, he'd swear Dean was holding his breath.

"I owe you, big brother. I owe you everything. I owe you my childhood. I owe you my freedom. I owe you my future."

"Sam…" Dean's voice shook on that word, again both a curse and a prayer.

"I'm serious, man," Sam said, trying to find the words to tell Dean that he existed beyond Sam, beyond John. That he was present. That he counted. "You are the reason I am who I am."

The tremble betrayed him before the hitch in his breath. Sam didn't say anything, knowing the only reason Dean gave in to the tears was because he couldn't be seen. They sat in the dark, Sam's arms wrapped around his brother's broken, trembling body, and Dean letting himself just be held. After a moment, Dean cleared his throat.

"Sammy?"

"Yeah?"

"The banshee's body is still in here isn't it?"

"Like five feet from us."

"You gonna think I'm a girl if I tell you that it totally creeps me out to be stuck in the dark with the headless body of a banshee?"

"Yes."

"Thought so."

Dean shivered again, and Sam knew it was from his wounds, not fear of the banshee's body.

"I have to get you out of here," Sam said, trying to figure out the best way to do just that.

"No argument here," Dean breathed.

Sam got his legs under him, shifting Dean forward, and as carefully as he could he pulled Dean off the stone floor and to his feet.

"Aww…sonuvabitch," Dean groaned, his head dropping back against Sam's shoulder as he got his legs under him.

"Easy, man, I got you…"

"D-don't let go yet, Sam," Dean panted, desperate to not lose consciousness. His back was against Sam's chest, his head helplessly tilted back against Sam's shoulder, and his left hand gripped his right side.

Sam pressed his lips together and his brow furrowed. "Wouldn't dream of it, Dude. I'll hold on as long as it takes." He tightened his grip on Dean's shoulders. "Forever if I have to," he whispered. Dean swallowed a pained groan. Sam stood still a moment waiting for Dean to get his balance.

"You ready?"

"Let's do it," Dean said through clenched teeth. Sam pulled Dean's left arm over his shoulders, stooping to help accommodate for his greater height. They moved slowly down the dark corridor.

"Do you even know where we are, Sam?"

"I'm starting to get a real feel for this place," Sam said, his step faltering over a stone just enough to make Dean hiss in pain. "Sorry."

After a few more steps, both brothers lifted their heads at a sudden bright light.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"You see that, too, right?"

The corner of Sam's mouth pulled up in a grin. "See what, Dean?" he teased.

"The light at the end of the tunnel," Dean whispered, relieved that at last, at last, someone was coming to help them. That they had one moment where someone pulled _them_ from the dark and told them it was going to be okay.

www

"Sam. Dean," Brenna's voice trembled with unabashed relief at seeing their images illuminated by the flashlight. They were battered, bloody, and bruised, but they were together -- they were standing together.

"You okay?" Sam asked, squinting against the light, and shifting his grip on Dean as his brother leaned into him.

"I'm better now that I've seen you. Did you get her?"

Dean lifted his head, looking up through his lashes. "She, uh, got ahead of herself," he said, chuckling at his own humor, then wincing as the laugh pulled at his side.

Sam laughed at Dean's sudden levity. "She's back there…and…there," he gestured vaguely in two different directions.

"Can we… just leave her?"

Dean shook his head tiredly. "Gotta burn her…it."

Brenna cocked her head and turned the flashlight from the boys and shone it on Declan. "I know someone who is just dying to help."

Declan grimaced, but nodded silently. Sam and Dean said nothing, just began their journey to the light once again. As soon as they'd cleared the doorway, Sam took a deep breath and looked out at the fading light from the dying sunset. He felt Dean try to shift away from him and take back some of his own weight. He resisted, curling his fingers around Dean's shoulder to hold him close still. He just wasn't ready to let go. To his surprise, Dean allowed it.

"It seem like we're living our lives in the dark, Sam?" Dean said with a soft sort of melancholy.

Sam sighed, looking out at the night. The stars had come out in force, shining down on them like a comforting friend, lighting the way from the house to the car, which was, thankfully parked very close. He had become familiar with the night at an early age. It was the time when his family was in action. It held his greatest fear and his greatest source of pride. He could move with the night while he prayed for the light to return.

"Somebody has to, man," Sam said, matching his voice to Dean's. Dean nodded, not looking at his brother. "You ready?"

"Absolutely."

"I'll drive," Brenna spoke up.

"No!" both brother's yelled at the same time.

Brenna jumped, then said, "I was just trying – "

"Keys, Brenna," Sam said, holding his hand out. She dug them out of her pocket and slapped them into his hand. The trio made their slow, painful way to the car. Sam opened the passenger door and eased Dean into the seat. He winced in sympathy at the crease of pain that darted across his face as he shifted into the seat. When Dean was settled, Sam turned to see if Brenna needed help. She'd limped this far on her own; he could tell she was determined to get the rest of the way there without help.

"You're just as stubborn as he is," Sam mumbled.

She lifted an eyebrow. "You should be used to it, then." She opened the back passenger door and climbed in. A sigh of relief escaped as she settled on the leather seats.

Sam climbed into the driver's seat, then paused.

"What are you waiting for," Brenna asked.

"Declan," Sam answered.

"He's got two ways home. Let him figure it out," Brenna muttered.

Dean's eyes were closed, his head resting against the cool of the window. "Something you want to share with the class?" he mumbled without opening his eyes.

Brenna closed her eyes and leaned back. Sam watched her in the rear-view mirror. Dean stayed still, eyes closed, and waited.

"It was Declan," she admitted in a low voice. "_He_ was the descendant of the clan chief. He knew what was going on all along – had protected himself from her, but she was apparently getting close. He lied to you, me, and your Dad. He's the reason she took Dean."

She waited for the exclamation and cursing. Neither brother reacted at first, then in unison they both muttered, "I thought so."

Dean raised a brow and turned tired eyes to Sam, who acknowledge him with a curt nod.

"You _thought_ so?!" Brenna exclaimed incredulously.

"Not exactly our first time, sweetheart," Dean said. "I could tell something was hinky about him from the first time we met him."

"Yep," Sam agreed. "Think Dad knows?"

"No," Dean sighed, lifting his head from the window and looking out the front windshield.

"We gonna tell him?"

Dean dropped his head back onto the seat. "I don't know, Sam."

Sam nodded, then twisted the keys until the familiar, powerful rumble of the Impala filled the silence.

www

"You're not serious."

"We'll make sure you get picked up."

"Sam, you two are beat to hell. Come in with me."

Dean shook his head once.

Sam met her eyes, "And how are we going to explain these injuries, Brenna? A broken ankle is one thing…" His eyes trailed to Dean's bloody shirt and pale face. His gut told him his brother needed more care than he could give, and he was this close to saying the hell with it and hauling him in there.

As though he had read his mind, Dean rolled his head on the seat, meeting his brother's worried eyes, "No. _You_ do it, Sam."

Sam looked back at Brenna with a shrug as if to say, 'what are you gonna do'? Brenna sighed and climbed out of the car, limping slowly to the ER entrance. She turned back once as the Impala roared out of the parking lot and headed toward her place.

Sam pulled into the lot and stopped the car. He simply sat there for a moment, registering how tired he was. His head ached from where the banshee had grabbed his hair – what was it about grabbing his hair, anyway? – his back was bruised from hitting the wall, and his arm and chest burned from the force of her nails. He looked over at Dean.

As tired as he was, he knew he was in no way as bad off as his brother. Dean slept with his head against the window. The cut on his head had stopped bleeding with the blood drying on his face. He held his right side protectively even in his sleep, and the empty right sleeve was eerie.

"Dean," Sam said. Dean didn't move. "C'mon, big brother. Open those eyes. We're here." Nothing. "Dean, Brenna's driving away in the Impala!"

Without moving, Dean grumbled, "So not funny, dude."

"Need some help?"

"Nah, I got it," Dean said, opening the car door. He turned his body and swung his leg out of the car, then caught himself with this left hand a moment before he tipped out of the car onto his face. "On second thought…"

Sam was already around the other side of the car and grabbed his left arm, pulling him to his feet. They made their way into the room and Dean dropped heavily onto the bed nearest the door, shifting immediately to his back and closing his eyes.

"Don't go to sleep yet, man," Sam said, closing the door behind him and retrieving the first aid kit. "We gotta get you cleaned up."

"You first, Sam."

"No, no way, man. You're lucky I didn't take you into the hospital."

"Sam, you have to clean those cuts out with holy water before they get too bad. Just, go take care of you and give me a minute…" with that he slung his left arm across his eyes, effectively ending the argument.

Sam muttered under his breath as he stalked to the bathroom.

"Stop pouting," Dean called after him.

"Jerk," Sam shot back. He heard Dean's muttered "Bitch" as he closed the bathroom door. He was surprised at the sight that met his eyes when he looked in the mirror. He looked like…well, like he'd been fighting a banshee in the dark. There was dried blood on his cheek – from Dean, he knew – and deep purple bruising on his neck from the banshee's death grip. He stripped off his shirt, tossing it on the floor, and poured holy water across his cuts.

"Aww…grwarrr…" he groaned out through clenched teeth. When he was done he leaned against the sink getting his breath back. Once cleaned, he could see that the cuts weren't deep at all. They would probably sting like hell, but there was no need for stitches. He turned the shower on hot, stepped in and winced as the spray soaked into the cuts and bruises on his back from hitting the wall. He lightly massaged his neck. He could still feel the banshee's cold bony fingers around his neck. Prying her fingers off of him had been…eerie.

When the bathroom was completely full of steam, he turned off the water, wrapped a towel around his waist, and stepped into the room. He immediately looked over at Dean on the bed across the room. He hadn't moved a muscle. Sam held his own breath and started at Dean's chest, making sure he was breathing. Assured that he was, he dressed quickly and grabbed up the first aid kit, sitting on the opposite side of the bed so that he was closest to Dean's right side.

"Hey, Dean," he said softly so as not to startle his brother into waking. "You gotta wake up now, okay?"

Dean shivered but didn't answer him. Sam reached over and pulled Dean's arm gently away from his face. Dean's eyes were closed and darting swiftly beneath his lids. He was shivering and his lips trembled in and out from the swift breaths. His face was pale, sweating, and his cheeks were pink from fever.

"Dammit," Sam cursed. He immediately shifted to a better position to help his brother, unbuttoning the green shirt and easing it away from the sticky blood spots that soaked through the bandages to stain it. He moved around to Dean's left side, pulling the sleeve from his brother's arm, and easing the shirt out from underneath him. He then cut the medical tape and as gently as he could he pulled it from his brother's arm and chest, laying Dean's limp arm down at his side. He hoped that the obvious fever was from exhaustion and blood loss, and not from infection.

Once before one of Dean's wounds had become infected. John had been there, then. He had managed to acquire an IV and the right kind of antibiotics, knowing that there was no way they could explain the bite mark to a doctor. Sam had watched helplessly then as his brother suffered with the fever for 36 hours. Then, the fever broke, and while weak, Dean had almost immediately been back to his old self.

But, John wasn't here this time. And it was up to Sam to help his brother. Dean groaned painfully when Sam began to remove the heavy, blood-soaked bandages from his side.

"Easy, man," Sam soothed. "You're okay. I'm here…"

The wounds weren't seeping anything other than blood. They weren't swollen and red, and Sam felt dizzy with relief. The stitches in his shoulder and over two of the gashes in his ribs had pulled free, but the sutures holding the puncture wound were firm. Sam knew that it was still very painful, but at least it wasn't infected. He grabbed a cool, wet cloth from the bathroom and washed the blood off of Dean's face. The cut on his head was deep. It was going to need stitches.

Sam sighed and looked at Dean. "Too bad it's not Halloween… you could go as Frankenstein."

He cleaned the head wound with antiseptic, then began to sew his broken brother back together. Dean occasionally tried to pull away from the pain, but he never woke up. When Sam was done, he re-wrapped the wounds, pulled Dean's boots off, and eased his unconscious brother under the covers.

He sat for a moment, watching Dean sleep. He'd been doing that a lot lately. He thought about how young Dean looked when he slept. The years of war and worry slipped from his face and what was left were the handsome features of the man that simply his brother. Part of it, Sam realized, was that his eyes were closed. Dean held experience, pain, sorrow, and knowledge well beyond his 26 years in those green eyes. He masked it well. He had a well-constructed wall that was never without defenses, except for when he slept. Maybe that's why he always had that knife under his pillow, Sam mused.

Dean pulled his brows together and frowned. Sam echoed his expression, watching him.

"Not true…"

Sam waited. The last time Dean began to talk like this he'd had to soothe him into stillness.

"Dad… loves you… Sammy…"

Sam's breath caught. The idea that Dean was trying to reassure him of his own father's love in a dream broke his heart a little. Sam didn't pretend he didn't care – when his father told him not to come back if he walked away from them to go to school, he had ached. Every fight he'd had with John over the years had helped him construct a wall of his own. One that was getting harder and harder to vault when their father called simply to send them on a hunt.

"Scared…" Dean whispered, turning his head to the right.

"Who's scared, Dean?" Sam whispered in return.

"Sammy."

"I'm not scared. I've got you."

Dean quieted down, but wasn't still. His head continued to toss back and forth and his brows pulled together in pain and in anger. Sam kept the cloth cool with repeated trips to the sink in the bathroom, and wiped Dean's face as often as he could. The night wore on and Sam found himself growing increasingly tired. He blinked often, standing at various times to keep awake. He was worried what could happen to Dean's fever if he slept.

However, unable to fight it any longer, he leaned forward next to Dean and rested his head on the pillow near his brother's head. He awoke to a strange, muffled scream, and Dean jerking his arms out as though to catch himself from falling.

"Dad!" Dean shouted, then lay still and blinked his eyes.

Sam sat up, eyes still heavy with sleep, neck stiff from his odd position. Faint rays of daylight were streaming through the blinds covering the windows. Dean lay next to him, his arms at either side of his body, hands splayed on the sheet as if to balance himself. He blinked slowly and Sam watched him try to get his breathing back under control. He set a sturdy hand on his brother's shoulder, pulling Dean's gaze toward him.

"You okay?"

Dean swallowed, looking at Sam a moment. Sam watched as the cobwebs from the dream were blinked from his brother's green eyes. Dean closed his eyes with a grimace, reaching up with his right hand and rubbed it over his face, wincing as he touched the cut on his forehead.

"Man," he groaned.

"Just a dream," Sam said softly, not moving his hand, keeping his eyes on Dean. He could tell from where he touched his shoulder that the fever had gone down.

"We gotta find him, Sam," Dean said, his hand still covering his face, his voice suspiciously raw. "I gotta find him."

"We will, Dean."

Dean sighed, then looked back over at Sam. "Dude, what happened to your neck?"

Sam tilted his head in question and then remembered the bruising. "Banshee."

A light flashed dangerously in Dean's eyes. "She _touched_ you?"

Sam's eyebrows shot up. "We kinda got her back for it, Dean."

Dean sighed, "I guess." He started to struggle to sit up, and gratefully grasped Sam's silently offered hand. "Man this sucks."

"I been thinking," Sam said as he helped Dean shift his legs over the edge of the bed.

"Well that's never a good thing," Dean gripped the edge of the bed, waiting for the room to stop spinning before he tried the standing up thing.

"We should tell Dad about Declan."

Dean sighed and looked over at Sam, blinking his bleary eyes. "Yeah, me, too."

"He's not gonna be happy."

"Nope."

"Think he'll believe us?"

Dean's jaw clenched. _He'd better._ "Yeah. I mean, why wouldn't he?"

The knock at their door surprised them both. For a moment, they exchanged a cautious glance… surely he hadn't…

Sam stood and opened the door. "Brenna!"

"Make sure I'll get picked up will you?" She grumbled, leaning on a crutch, her left ankle wrapped in ace bandages.

"Oh, man, Brenna," Sam started.

"Save it," she said. "Just invite me in."

Dean lifted an eyebrow at her. "What are you a vampire? Get in here already."

She limped in and stood in front of him. "Well, I'd say you're a sight for sore eyes, but really you're a sore sight for my eyes, Winchester."

He looked up at her, squinting his eyes against the daylight from the open door at her back. "What…"

She sat next to him. "Forget it. Are you okay?"

Sam closed the door and sat heavily on a chair by the small table in the corner of the room. He just watched them, not worry about the total lack of privacy he was creating. He didn't plan on letting Dean out of his site for awhile – not until he was able to move around without the lines of pain on his face.

"I'll live," Dean said, his hand unconsciously snaking around to cover the fresh bandages on his right side. "Your, uh, Declan get back okay?"

Brenna shrugged. "I have no idea."

Sam pulled his eyebrows together. "How'd you get home?"

Brenna spared him a glance. "We do have cabs in this town you know."

"Ah."

"Dean," Brenna started. "I wanted…I needed to say…"

"Don't worry about it…"

"But I – "

"I get it, okay? I understand…"

"I really mean it."

"I know you do."

Sam shook his head. "You two are freaking me out."

Brenna looked over at him with a slight smile, then looked around the room. The spare bed was still covered with their guns. She looked back at Sam, then shifted her glance to Dean.

"You two share a bed last night or something?"

The brothers just looked at her silently.

Brenna looked from one to the other, then really looked at Dean. She could tell he was the one who'd actually slept in the ruffled bed, but he looked exhausted. Without thinking, she reached out to stroke his cheek, surprised when he jerked back.

"I-I'm sorry…"

"Brenna, listen, it's been a long couple of days."

Brenna nodded. "Right. Got it," she stood, leaning on the crutch. "I'll leave you to it then."

Dean let her walk out of the room without saying a word to call her back. Sam knew exactly what was going through his brother's head.

"Dean, don't," he said softly.

"Don't what," Dean asked tiredly with the tone that said he already knew what Sam was thinking.

"Don't shut her out. She didn't know about Declan either."

Dean nodded, then let his head drop a bit to stare at spot on the floor. "I know."

"Why won't you let her… let someone in?"

Sam expected the standard 'no chick flick moments' comment from his brother, but the last few days had really worn Dean down. He didn't seem to have it in him to resist honesty for the moment.

"Because I'm afraid there's nothing to see," he said. "Besides, I did that once before."

"Did what?"

"Let someone in," Dean said. "She couldn't run fast enough, man."

"Brenna's not Cassie, Dean. For one, she already knows about you… for another… man, you guys are like two halves of the same coin."

Dean gave him a sideways glance. "You been snooping around her herb cabinet, there Sammy?"

"I'm serious. I mean you practically said it yourself. It's how you knew she was going after the banshee."

"So we think alike, so what?"

"I'm not pushing you, Dean. I'm just saying you don't have to fight this… just because."

"Because that's what I always do you mean."

Sam shrugged. He watched Dean think on that a minute, then he grabbed the headboard of the motel bed to pull himself to a standing position. Sam was by his side in an instant.

Dean looked at him with a raised brow. "You gonna shower with me, too?"

Sam sighed. "Just be careful with those stitches. I don't want to have to put them back in a third time."

"Ditto," Dean said with a nod. The shower was a long, arduous process ending with Dean sitting, wrapped in a towel, on the closed toilet lid, pushing the door open and calling Sam in.

"Don't worry about it, man," Sam said, grabbing Dean's left arm and hauling him to his feet.

"This sucks out loud," Dean grumbled on the way back to the bed.

"Next time maybe you won't get yourself captured by a banshee," Sam teased, easing him down. Dean groaned through clenched teeth as Sam eased him back on the bed. "Want me to help you with your shorts?"

"No."

Sam helped him lay back on the bed still wrapped in the towel, and then pulled the covers up to Dean's bandages. "I'll check on you later."

"Fine."

One-word answers were a sure Dean Winchester signal of pain. Sam grabbed his cell and left the room as soon as Dean's eyes closed and his breathing evened out. He closed the door firmly behind him, then leaned on the rail that traveled the extent of the building. He flipped the phone open and scrolled down to Dad.

Hitting the send button, he realized that once again he was holding his breath. When his Dad's voicemail picked up, he tried to not be disappointed.

"Hey Dad, it's, uh, Sam," he said, clearing his throat. "Listen, the banshee's gone. We, uh, we decapitated her. Didn't know exactly what would work, but not much can live without their heads, huh? Even evil. Anyway, there's something you should know. Your friend Declan? He knew about the banshee. He knew about the curse. He sent it after Dean trying to protect himself. He almost got his granddaughter killed. Dean wanted – _we_ wanted you to know, Dad." Sam sighed and collected himself. "The banshee messed Dean up pretty bad. We're going to stay here for a bit" – translation, do _not_ send us any coordinates – "until he can hunt again."

Not knowing what else to say, he closed the phone with a "Bye, Dad."

He stared at the closed phone for awhile and was surprised when her voice sounded from just behind him. "Think he'll do anything about Declan?"

Sam turned and looked at Brenna. He knew instantly that she'd been crying and had tried to cover it up. Her eyelids around her lashes were slightly swollen and the tip of her nose was red. He'd always been able to see right through Jessica's attempts to hide her tears.

Sam pressed his lips together and shrugged. "You know… he doesn't know how else to be, Brenna. It's not been easy for him."

"I know," she said, knowing instinctively that he was talking about Dean, not John or Declan. "I mean I _know_. I saw the scars – the ones on the inside. But…"

"But what?"

"Well, I'm not one of those people who think they can _fix_ it. I know that some things can't be fixed, and I know that some things can only be fixed by the person who is broken."

"So…"

"Thing is, Dean doesn't believe that about me."

"Oh, I see. You think he thinks you are only interested in him because you want to fix him… and why do I suddenly feel like I'm back in Jr. High?"

Brenna grinned ruefully. "He asleep?"

"He is right now. He's pretty… well he's…"

"He got the hell beat out of him, Sam. It's okay to say that your brother is hurt. It doesn't make him less a hero," she leveled her eyes on him.

"I know that," Sam snapped. "But… Dean's not supposed to be the one that is hurt like this. He's… it's like he's invincible. And if I say it out loud, how bad it is, well…"

"He's not invincible, Sam. He's human. He's human and he's lost and he's fighting and he's lonely… and most of all, he's your brother."

She started to turn away, then paused. She turned back to Sam and grabbed his hand. "When he wakes up, will you give him this?"

She pressed a small silver medal into the palm of Sam's hand.

"You don't want to give it to him yourself? I mean, we're not gonna be going anywhere for awhile."

She shook her head. "That's okay. Just make sure he gets it."

_a/n: Gaelic translation: the Hail Mary: Hail Mary, Full of Grace, The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of death._


	8. Part 8: The Journey's The Thing

**Disclaimer/Spoilers: **See Part 1

_a/n: Some of you have mentioned that you like Brenna, so I changed my original ending so that I would have the opportunity to perhaps revisit these characters again. Someday. Maybe. Last chapter. Hope you enjoy!_

Part 8

Dean slept through the rest of the day and into the night. He awoke once to see that Sam still hadn't cleared the guns off the second bed and was lying on top of the covers, his back to Dean. He smiled a little at that. Whenever he'd been scared when he was little, Sam had always climbed into Dean's bed, pressing his back against Dean to feel the warmth of his brother's presence. This time he wasn't touching Dean, but his closeness on the bed was comforting. Dean drifted back to an easy sleep.

The next morning, he awoke sore, stiff, but for a change, not completely exhausted. Sam was gone; a note lying next to him said he'd _gone for coffee_. Dean slowly stretched his arms above his head, shoving his hands under the pillow. He couldn't raise his right arm very far because of the way it pulled at his stitches, but it felt good to be able to move it at all. He suddenly realized he was starving. He honestly couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten anything. He got slowly to his feet and went into the bathroom. He was relieved that he could get through that whole process without having to call for Sam. When he emerged from the bathroom, clad only in a pair of semi-clean jeans, Sam was sitting at the small table, tapping on the keys to his laptop.

He looked up and a genuinely happy smile lit his entire face at the site of Dean. "Mornin', Sunshine," he chirped.

"Hey," Dean said, looking at the laptop. "We got a gig or something?"

Sam shook his head. "Hardly. We aren't going anywhere until you can swing a machete at least as good as me."

"Sam," Dean said in a warning tone. "You know I'm a quick healer."

"Aw, shut up. Here. Sit. Eat."

Dean eased himself onto the chair, pulled the lid off of the cup of coffee and downed half of it in one gulp.

Sam shook his head. "How you have any taste buds left is beyond me."

"What else you got?"

"Chocolate donuts, Lucky Charms, travel size at least, and bagels."

Dean immediately downed two of the chocolate donuts and poured himself a bowl Lucky Charms. Sam was amazed that Dean was in as good of shape as he was – when not wounded anyway – as he seemed to exist on greasy foods, sugar, and black coffee.

"Hey," Sam said when he was satisfied that Dean had some food in his system. "Brenna came back yesterday while you were asleep."

Dean just lifted his head. He said nothing.

"She wanted me to give you this," Sam passed the medal across the table to Dean who picked it up and studied it carefully.

He sighed. "You got any idea where she is?"

Sam shook his head.

Dean looked up at him through his lashes, "I have to talk to her."

"I know."

It took him about 30 minutes to find a shirt that wasn't covered by blood or sweat, and another 10 to give in and ask Sam to help him pull it on. By the time he'd gotten his boots on, he was panting from exertion. Sam put a steadying hand on his arm as he walked to the door.

"I'll, uh… I'll just wait here," Sam said. He knew that if Dean wasn't back in a bit he would go looking for him to make sure he wasn't passed out in the dirt somewhere. And he knew Dean knew that. So he didn't bother saying anything.

Dean started out in an aimless slow wander and then realized that he was heading straight for the garage. It made about as much sense as any place she might be. He rounded the corner and found that he wasn't at all surprised to see her sitting in the backseat of the '65 Mustang, looking for all the world like someone had just shot her dog.

He moved into the garage slowly, knowing that she was watching him – and that she'd probably known he was coming from the moment he stepped out into the bright daylight from the dim light of the motel room. He paused at the door of the Mustang, and just looked at her. She shoved over to make room and he climbed up and sat down slowly, clenching his teeth against the burn in his side.

She said nothing, just turned in the seat to look at him, her yellow-green eyes steady and sad.

"How's your ankle?" he asked, surprised to find his voice a bit rough.

"Sprained."

He nodded.

"But, y'know, good thing they didn't have to amputate or anything."

"My thoughts exactly."

They sat in silence for a few minutes more.

"You talk to Declan yet?" Dean asked.

"Not really… not sure when I will be ready to."

Dean sighed, and although he wanted to strangle the man for he'd done to his Dad... to him... he had to remember that he was Brenna's only family. "Just… just remember that he did what he did to try to save you. And, however it happened, we're all alive."

"Some of us are perforated," Brenna grumbled, casting a side-long glance at Dean's left hand protectively resting across his right side.

"Well you can't have everything," he sighed.

They sat in silence again.

"So, St. Christopher's medal."

She looked at him, her eyes going just a bit wide.

"Patron Saint of travelers, right?"

"That's right."

"Guess that's fitting since Sammy and I are always on the road."

"That's not why I wanted you to have it."

Dean turned and looked at her full-on. "Well, why then?"

"Because you're on a journey, Dean. And I'm not sure when you'll reach the end or what you'll find there. So I wanted you to have some…protection while you traveled."

It was such a sweet, honest answer – and completely devoid of any ulterior motive – that Dean had to swallow before he spoke. "Thanks."

"You're welcome," she said softly, hearing more behind that word than he knew he'd released.

He leaned over slightly, resting his left shoulder on her right one. She pressed back, acknowledging the gesture and appreciating the touch. They sat like that for a moment, and then Dean turned to her, cupping her face in his right hand. He rubbed a rough thumb over her lips, and looked directly into her eyes.

"I'm no good for you, Brenna."

She lifted her eyebrows, keeping her eyes on his. "If this is your seduction technique, we should talk."

"My brother and I are going to leave as soon as we can," he continued, ignoring the familiar move of using sarcasm to mask discomfort. "We have to find our Dad. And, well, there's more."

She narrowed her eyes. "There's a demon."

He looked away for a moment, unnerved that it had been right there in his eyes for her to see. "Yeah."

"So."

Dean looked back at her, surprised. "So, this… this whatever it is between us isn't going to work."

"You know this for sure, do you?"

"How can it?"

"Well, what exactly does it have to _do_?"

"What do you mean?"

"You say know it's not going to work, but… Dean, all I want is you. Now, in this moment. In the next moment, in the moment after that. I mean, well, life happens, doesn't it?"

Dean narrowed his eyes. "And you're okay with that?"

"Dean, I'm female."

"I've noticed."

"That means I want things to be the way _I_ want them to be. Logic and reason don't always have a place in my world, and I can exist on pure emotion for days. But, I'm also a druid. I have seen things other people can't. And I know that you have a purpose that's beyond me, beyond _us_."

Dean sat very still, watching her, listening to her, believing her.

"That doesn't stop me from wanting to kiss you right now. It doesn't stop me from wanting to make real the things my imagination has been teasing me with since you walked into the bar. Your stitches stop me, but not the reality of you leaving."

"You're unreal."

"Oh, I'm completely real, Dean," she whispered, her eyes flashing wide and wild, as she leaned close. She was careful to touch only his face, though her hands ached to roam his body. She knew for a fact that he was basically being held together with stitches at the moment. She paused just before touching her lips to his, allowing him to make the last move.

He tightened his fingers in her hair pulling her face in and crushed his mouth down on hers. As if they felt the sudden desperation inside of each other at this moment, they held the first impact of the kiss for a long, long while, just feeling the sensation of having each other close, touching each other, not being alone. Dean pulled back for a breath, then slanted his mouth over hers again, drawing her breath into his lungs. He wanted to press her back against the seat. He wanted to ensure that there was no space, no air, nothing between them. But as he simply leaned in closer, his side burned with a sudden intensity and he pulled back with a hiss of pain.

Brenna pulled her lips in to keep the taste of him close to her for a moment more. She watched him close his eyes tight against the pain, then open them to look at her in apology. She smiled at him, then reached into her jacket pocket.

"Here," she said, her voice rough from unspoken emotions.

He took the small jar of purple paste and looked at it. It looked strangely familiar. "What is it?"

"It's the salve we put on you the other day. It will help speed up the healing process."

He lifted an eyebrow and quirked his lips. "Will it really."

"Completely altruistic motives, I swear."

"Sure sure." He sat back against the seat, his shoulder touching hers again. "Thanks."

"You better head back before your brother finds you here," she said, giving him a gentle shove. "I'll see you later."

He looked up at her, the question plain in his eyes.

"I promise," she assured him.

www

Brenna's salve did help Dean heal quicker. Never being one to sit still longer than he absolutely had to, he spent his time pulling parts from around the garage and using them to fix the 1982 Grande National, the one abandoned car that was in the best shape. At first his movements were very slow and deliberate. He was conscious toward the middle of the day of every breath he took as it stretched taunt the stitches across his ribs.

On the first day, Sam had to practically carry him back to the motel room – Sam grumbling that Dean was a stubborn bastard and Dean grumbling that he would go stark raving mad if he didn't do _something _so back off… only not too far because he may need help later. On the second day, Dean was able to make it back to the motel room on his own, and even managed to stay awake through dinner, sleeping a heavy dreamless sleep that night. By the third day, however, he moved without thinking about every twist of his side or swing of his arm.

Sam helped with the car as much as he could, but mostly just came down to the garage to hand Dean tools, and talk to his brother. They had been on the road for over six months together and Sam thought they shared more in those three days than they had in the endless hours in the Impala. Brenna was scarce, but around. She brought them drinks, food, and was always ready for a bit of verbal sparring.

When Sam remembered to tell Dean he'd called their Dad, he thought Dean was going to be angry with him for neglecting to share that information sooner. He wasn't expecting to hear the worry for their father in Dean's voice. He was lying under the car on a dolly, his legs bent and was only visible from the knees down. Sam heard the wrench he'd been using stop, then start again.

"You actually talk to him?"

"Voicemail."

"He call you back?"

"Not so far."

"You… you tell him we were staying here for a bit?"

"Yeah," Sam said, instinctively knowing where his brother was going with this. "I told him that you needed to heal up from the banshee…"

Dean was silent, and the wrench worked faster. "Wish you hadn't done that, Sam."

"Why?"

"'Cause Dad hates it when we're hurt."

"Dad hates it when we're stalled in our never-ending quest to eliminate evil from the earth," Sam said bitterly, wondering as he said that if it was even possible…and what would result. If you rid the world of evil, he thought looking at his brother, would you end up living in a world without hero's?

"He'll worry."

"Doubt it, Dean."

The wrench stopped again. "Sam," he said with that tired note of warning in his voice. The tone that clearly said _how many times do I have to say this…_

"What evidence do we have otherwise, Dean? The time he showed up in Lawrence when you called him? Or the time he came to the hospital because I'd called him when you were fucking electrocuted? Oh, wait, no…"

Dean sighed and pushed the dolly out from under the car. Sam braced himself for a tirade of defense against John. But Dean just sat on the dolly, holding his right side, looking sad.

"Sammy," he said, his voice low and soft, "he's our Dad. He's the only one we're ever gonna get. And he's not perfect. And he hurts us without realizing it. And he's stubborn as hell… but," Dean swallowed and looked up at Sam, his eyes pleading for understanding. "He's _ours_, y'know?"

Sam swallowed his reply. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I know."

Just then, Sam's phone buzzed, making him jump. He stood and fished it out of his pocket. He flipped it open, his eyes widening and looked up at Dean.

"What?"

"Coordinates."

Dean closed his eyes and shook his head. They'd gotten three days. Three days to regroup, heal, pull themselves together. It wasn't enough. He wasn't ready.

"And a message."

Dean opened his eyes. "What does it say?"

"Good job, boys."

"That's it?"

Sam nodded.

"Well… that's something at least," Dean sighed. He looked at the wrench in his hand. "Guess we can leave tomorrow."

Sam walked over to him, offering a hand up. When Dean was standing, he looked his brother in the eye. "I'll go look up the deal. You got some stuff to tend to."

Dean nodded, wiped his hands on the shop towel sticking out of his back pocket, and started walking toward the bar.

www

Good Lord, he was wearing the gray T-shirt. He walked into her bar/café, his green eyes scanning the room, a smear of grease above his right eyebrow. His lips were slightly pursed and his jaw muscle jumped. She stood in the shadows and gave herself a moment to just watch him. She knew why he'd come looking for her. She'd told herself she'd be ready when the moment came. She'd known then that she was lying to herself.

He moved forward in a slow gait, his arms hanging loosely at either side, his legs slightly bowed at the knee, his hands open, but his fingers slightly bent. He stepped down the stairs and walked up to the bar, ignoring Declan and the other patrons to turn around, lean his back against the bar and hook his elbows on the edge. He looked dangerous and approachable at the same time. She wondered if he were aware that every female eye in the bar was gravitating toward him like he was magnetized.

As she observed this, a sly smile crossed her lips. She set the tray she was holding down on the nearest table, removed her apron and set in on top of the tray, then walked out of the shadows toward him. She felt her heart rate increase when his eyes caught sight of her. He didn't move, however. He let her advance, as if he knew exactly what she was doing. While everyone – or at least every female – in the room watched, she stepped up to him, so close her leg fit between his, took his face in her hands, and kissed him hard, effectively branding him as her own. At least for that one moment. He kept his arms where they were, but she could feel him tense to touch her.

She pulled away and said loudly, "What'll it be, stranger."

His mouth quirked up in a half grin. "Whatever's on tap."

She nodded and moved behind the bar. He rotated and leaned his elbows on the bar, looking at her intently. She pulled a beer for him, set it in front of him, then leaned forward and matched his stare.

"He called didn't he?"

Dean nodded.

"How soon?"

"Tomorrow."

Brenna nodded. "Go for a walk?"

Dean nodded and pushed away from the counter, ignoring the stares of the other people in the bar. He waited until Brenna was next to him, then put his hand on the small of her back, leading her out of the bar/café. The walked silently for a bit, aiming for the general vicinity of the garage with no real intent to get there.

"I'm not ready," she confessed. Dean put a hand on her arm and stopped her. He turned her to face him, liking the way she always met his eyes.

"Me neither," he said.

"So don't go," she challenged, but as soon as those words left her mouth she saw her answer.

In the few days he'd been allowed to just…just _be_ she'd caught glimpses of him in his eyes. She'd seen sweetness and light along side darkness and vengeance. She'd seen the boy inside laugh at least once. But with those three words, all that retreated back into whatever protective fortress Dean had spent over twenty years building and once again she saw John and she saw Sam. She saw duty and obligation. She saw fear and she saw love. But the thing that broke her heart was the raw _need_ that never seemed to be too far from his eyes.

"I have to," he said, his hand still on her elbow.

He pulled her close to him so that her head tucked under his chin. In a moment of real tenderness, he kissed the top of her head, lingering longer than he meant to when her arms wrapped around his waist and she held on. She held him tight, but not so that it was painful.

"I don't want to let go," she whispered.

_Don't_, Dean thought, but he didn't say anything. He just kept his hand on her back, and he lips pressed to the crown of her head.

They stood like that for a long moment, then Brenna released him, turned around and walked away. He let her, watching silently as she wiped tears from her face in an impatient gesture. He waited until she'd gone into the house and he couldn't see her anymore, then he turned and went back to the motel room and Sam.

www

The last of the weapons was loaded into the Impala and Dean was shoving his remaining clothes into his duffle. He paused when he finished, unconsciously rubbing his right side. The pain was still there, but not as sharp. Not as obvious. Sam stepped around him and grabbed his duffle. He didn't say a word as his brother tossed his bag into the trunk and closed the lid. Sam tossed him the keys and Dean ran his thumb over the familiar metal. He'd added the St. Christopher's medal to the key ring. If anything needed protection, it was his baby.

"You gonna go say goodbye?" Sam asked, leaning on the passenger side of the car.

Dean shrugged. "Never was much good with goodbyes. I figure we just… just go."

"Like hell," he heard behind him.

Brenna stood next to the railing on the outside of the motel, her arms crossed, hip cocked, eyes hot, and hair blowing behind her in the wind like a red-gold wing. She looked like a wild thing. He stood in the open door of the Impala, feeling slightly torn. He knew he had to leave her, and truth be told, he wanted to leave her. He wanted to be back on the road with Sam, looking for their Dad, saving people, hunting things. He wanted his life. But he also wanted one last time…

"Oh, hell," he growled and crossed the lot in four long strides. He literally swept her up, his arms wrapping around her, his hands fisting in the hair that hung down her back. She tightened her hands into fists and pressed them into his back. Their mouths crashed together a mutual understanding. Dean pulled away first, looking into her unusual eyes.

"Don't forget me," she said.

"No possible way," he said huskily. "I owe you my life."

"Don't forget me for other reasons, too," she grinned.

Dean grinned back and cupped her face gently as he kissed her once again. "Bye, Brenna," he whispered.

"Slán leat," she replied.

Sam watched from the car, smiled, and ducked into the passenger seat to wait for his brother. When Dean sat down in the driver's seat, his smile was still present.

"Where are we going, Sammy?" He asked as the Impala roared to life.

"Chicago."

"Ah, the Windy City. Good pizza."

"Also? A woman murdered in her home, all doors and windows locked, alarm still on, and apparently it looked like a wild animal attack."

"At least we won't get bored."

Sam decided he had to go there. "Maybe Dad will meet us there this time."

Dean looked over at his brother with a grin, the purely Dean-like twinkle back in his eyes. He smacked Sam once on the knee. "Maybe he will, Sammy."

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Declan watched as the black car pulled out of the lot. His hands fingered the note he'd found impaled on his beer tap this morning.

_Grande National runs. Needs keys. Make amends, old man._

The phone on the bar rang and Declan jumped. He picked it up. "Yeah?"

"_My boys gone, Kavanagh?"_

Declan's blood felt like ice water in his veins. "Just pulled away, John."

"_Good. I'll be there in ten minutes. We need to talk. You have some serious shit to explain."_

Declan set the phone down with shaking hands. For a moment, he wished the wrath of the banshee had taken him and spared him the wrath of John Winchester. Declan knew his boys had no idea how fiercely protective he was of them.

"I am in serious trouble," he whispered to the unsympathetic air.

**Fin**

_Slán leat. Good Bye_

_Thanks for your reviews! I've treasured every one. Maybe someday I'll write more. _


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